Fool's Paradise: A Lady Priscilla Flanders Mystery

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Neville wondered how many times he had witnessed her offering someone solace. He had lost count, but every single person had been comforted by her genuine kindness.

  “She might be able to help you with the oldest one,” he said, taking care to follow his own advice and not mention any of the servants by name.

  “Oldest? Woman or man?” the abigail asked as she looked from him to Pris.

  “Woman,” Pris answered. “She is sick, and we are bringing her to my room to recover. I will need help making sure nobody discovers she is there.” She looked at the house. “Nobody.”

  “I will find time to sit with her.” Roxanne held out her hands and took one of Pris’s and one of his. “Thank you so much. I barely dared to believe they were alive after all this time.”

  “Don’t thank us yet,” he said drearily. “Until we can make a plan to get them out of Novum Arce, they are prisoners.” He cursed under his breath before adding, “Just like the rest of us.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  SHORTLY AFTER breakfast two days later, Jack stamped into the barracks and threw his equipment on the bed. Swearing, he turned to ram his fist into the stone wall.

  Neville grabbed his arm. “Whoa there, mate! You will break your knuckles, and how will that help you win your lady’s heart?”

  “It is not about her!” Jack jerked his arm, and Neville released it. “We will never be anything but a joke.”

  “We?”

  “The soldiers in this end of the barracks.” His fingers curled into fists again, but he opened them when Neville frowned at him.

  “What has gotten you at daggers drawn?”

  He hooked a thumb toward the side of the building where the skilled soldiers slept. “Them. They have been whispering about a meeting at the baths for those who have been welcomed to the Temple of Mithras, a group to which every soldier should belong. It is a good time because the baths are seldom used in the morning. But when I asked them about it, they told me only real warriors were invited. They laughed in my face and told me to keep my mouth shut and go back to trying not to kill myself with my own weapon.”

  “They were trying to rile you.”

  “They succeeded.” He sat heavily on his cot and shoved his armor onto the floor. “Because they are right. Some of the men here can barely control their swords or spears. Our so-called officers are worthless, more concerned about the amount of wine in their goblets than helping us learn to defend Novum Arce.”

  “Let me see what I can find out,” Neville said. He stuck his dagger in his belt and reached for his helmet.

  Jack snorted. “Good luck with your doomed quest.”

  “Thanks.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Wait here, and don’t try to ram your hand through the wall . . . at least until I get back.”

  He gave him a reluctant smile. “I can promise that much.”

  Neville hurried out of the barracks and toward the center of the compound as he considered ideas and tossed them aside. He had to have what would appear to be a legitimate excuse to enter the baths when the elite soldiers were holding a meeting. If he did not, they would guess Jack had told him, and then they might punish Jack for talking about what they wanted to keep a secret.

  He paused as he passed Pris’s office. He should not involve her, but the two of them going to the baths on the pretense of being together in one of the rooms was the only idea he had. It would not be dangerous. People came and went at the baths throughout the day, which made the soldiers’ plans to congregate there surprising.

  Walking into Pris’s office, he saw her writing in one of the great books open on her table. She looked up and smiled. Warmth flooded him. Each of her smiles was a precious gift that reached right into his heart and banished his usual cynicism for a few heartbeats.

  “This is a wonderful surprise,” she said, coming to her feet and around the table. She kissed his cheek in a greeting appropriate for very good friends, but the longing for more glowed in her eyes like twin versions of the evening star.

  As he did each time he saw her, he checked to make sure there were no visible signs of her pregnancy. They needed to be away from Novum Arce before that happened. Her form still was trim and showed no signs of the changes going on inside her.

  “I need your assistance.” Neville lowered his voice. “At the baths.”

  She looked over her shoulder toward her bedroom door. “I should not leave my guest alone.”

  Getting Miss Redding to Pris’s room after dark last night had been more complicated than they imagined. Neville had recruited some of the other soldiers to help him carry weapons to the training field. When he had asked his fellow legionaries to wrap the swords first in blankets to protect them from the dew on the ground, they had been hesitant until he promised them some excellent bottles of wine if they followed what he let them assume was the commandant’s order. Miss Parker had told them where those bottles were stored, a fact she learned when Miss Beamish had sent her to get one or two to share with a favorite lover. Pris had retrieved a dozen while pretending to do an inventory.

  When Neville went to get Miss Redding, she did not want to abandon the others and had to be convinced it was part of a scheme to free them. He wrapped her in a blanket to match those used to transport the weapons and carried her to Pris’s office with no undue notice. There, Pris and Miss Parker helped the old woman into bed while he had carried the wine, carefully wrapped in the blanket, to the barracks before rejoining the other soldiers on the training ground.

  Complicated, yes, but it had worked without anyone else being the wiser.

  “How does your guest fare?” he asked.

  “She is asleep, thanks to one of Aunt Tetty’s powders.”

  “I will need your help for a few minutes.” He outlined his nebulous plan. “Once we are seen going into the baths, you can sneak back here before your guest awakens.”

  He took her hand, thrilling in the feel of her soft fingers against his work-hardened skin. He did not release it as they walked toward the baths. When they passed the entrance to the Temple of Mithras and began down the hill toward the baths beside the stream, he glanced at the temple with its simple columns. He had gone inside when he and Pris had been searching for the elusive crates of weapons. Seeing no doors in there, save for the one that opened into the cave below, he had left. Now he wondered if he should have explored farther. He would do so as soon as he had a chance.

  They passed more than a score of people between Pris’s office and the main door to the baths. Neville made sure he greeted each of them, so they would remember seeing him and Pris.

  Inside, they walked through the apodyterium, the area where anyone could leave their clothing while they enjoyed the baths. Individual cubicles were available, so items did not get mixed up or lost. Nobody guarded the space. Whether it was because there were no thieves in Novum Arce or no one could be spared for the task, he had no idea.

  He held his finger to his lips and listened for voices. He heard them, faint and distant. No words, only voices rising and falling.

  “Where are they?” Pris whispered.

  “In the caldarium, I would wager.” He took her hand and walked through the door into what should have been the hottest room in the baths, the place to sweat and wash. It was cool. The hypocaust fires which heated the space beneath the stone floor must have gone out overnight.

  The room was empty. Where were the soldiers?

  “Listen,” Pris murmured. “I can still hear them.” She knelt. “Down here.”

  Under the floor? Neville lifted a stone and looked down into the area where fires were lit to keep the caldarium hot. All he saw were ashes.

  Leaning down, he held his breath. The voices were definitely louder beneath the floor.

  He stood. “All right, Pris. This is as far as you g
o. I will let you know what I find.”

  “You cannot be thinking of crawling under the floor. There could be hot embers.”

  “I need to find out what is going on.”

  “Then I am going with you.”

  “No!”

  She stared at him in disbelief at the tone he had never used with her before. Curving his hands around her shoulders, he bent until his eyes were even with hers.

  “Don’t argue with me on this,” he said, brushing a loose strand of her hair from her face. “I have to go, but you must stay here where you are safe.”

  She sighed and closed her eyes, complying with his request. When she put her hand on his arm, her fingers trembled. He set his hand over hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. He hoped the motion would say what words could not.

  “Wait for me with something cold to drink.” He tried to give her a jaunty smile, but it was impossible when her expression was bleak.

  “I will,” she whispered. “Be careful, Neville.”

  “I always am.”

  Her golden brows rose. “Really? Since when?” She pressed her lips to his and ran out of the caldarium.

  Neville stared after her, knowing she felt she had failed him because she could not be at his side.

  He rubbed his hands together then knelt by the stone he had shifted to one side. The space was narrow, but he should be able to fit through it if he held his breath.

  Dropping into the space that was no more than three feet high, he grimaced as he pulled the stone over him, leaving a small gap so he might escape back into the caldarium. He could not go out the way the boys did after clearing the ashes without being seen.

  Light trickled between the stones, and he saw where ashes had been brushed aside to his right. His eyes widened. There should not be an opening in that direction. He was near the front of the baths, and he should be looking at a stone foundation like the ones on the other three sides.

  He listened and was not surprised to learn that the rumble of voices was coming from the tunnel. It was magnifying the sound enough so it could be heard in the baths. He could not pick out individual voices.

  As he crawled on his belly toward the tunnel, he realized the embers had been kicked aside by someone else who had also come in this direction. That person might be ahead of him. He peered down its length and saw faint light. Nobody else was in the tunnel unless there were branches or niches off it. But he could not discern that from where he was.

  Neville inched into the tunnel. The scrape of embers threatened to betray him, but he left them behind after he was a few feet into the cramped space. There was enough room to raise his head to gauge how close he was to the end as he clawed his way through, gripping the edges of bricks to propel himself forward. If he had to beat a hasty retreat, he would be in deep trouble.

  Making sure there were no vagrant embers or other debris in front of him, he eased as close as he dared to the end of the tunnel and looked out. A string of curses rattled through his head as he stared at what he had not expected to see.

  It was a large, earthen-sided chamber. A cave. The tunnel must be near the roof. Smoke came from a trio of braziers set equidistant along the long room. He saw a pair of identical statues on the floor near the bottom of stairs leading up from the cave. The two figures wore legionaries’ cloaks, helmets, and weapons. Each had a drawn sword pointed at the other stone warrior.

  At the other end of the room, three square columns were set beneath a mural of a man slicing the throat of a bull. That was the altar of Mithras. The three columns were about three feet tall. Though close to the same size, each one was topped with a different sort of pediment. The one in the middle held a carved figure, and the two flanking it were covered with crudely carved writing. He guessed the words were in Latin, but he could not read them from across the cave. He could see the figure on the middle one. It was a torso of a man dressed in armor. From the left side of his helmet, three indentations were shaped like chubby feathers. They were not feathers, but light flowing off the god.

  He was looking at the secret cave beneath the Temple of Mithras, the one sacred to the warrior god’s followers. As he watched, a half a dozen men wandered into his view. They came toward him, but did not look up to where he hid.

  More men followed, and he picked out faces he recognized, though some of the men remained in shadow. The ones he could identify were from among the elite warriors in the century. St. John walked among them as if he were a soldier, too. Everyone but the Imperator stopped by one of the statues. St. John continued to the altar and bowed before turning to face the others.

  “We are well-assembled here this morn.” St. John raised his arms, and Neville saw he held some sort of staff in his right hand. “Our way will be blessed.”

  A man Neville recognized as one of the leaders of the skilled legionaries stepped forward and took the staff. Holding it aloft, he said, “It is time to stop talking and set forth with what we plan to do.”

  “Not yet.” St. John took the pole back, and Neville wondered if they believed the one who possessed it had the right to speak. “For over two years, we have lived in peace here in Novum Arce. It can remain that way.”

  “Thomas, will you stop mewling like an old woman?” asked a voice from the shadows. A female voice!

  Neville frowned. He had not expected to hear a woman speaking in Mithras’s cave. Who was it?

  A tall, voluptuous woman emerged from the shadows. Lord Beamish’s daughter! What was she doing in the temple of Mithras where only men were allowed?

  She walked up to St. John and plucked the staff from his fingers. He sank to sit on a bench beside the three short columns, looking suddenly less like a great leader and more like a beaten dog.

  As the other man had, Miss Beamish held the staff over her head. “Heed me well! The time is coming, but it is not yet.”

  Grumbles trickled through the cavern.

  Miss Beamish cut the complaints off with a single command. “Heed me well!” she repeated. “Our time is coming, and I can promise you the rewards at the end will be worth the wait. Who is with me?”

  The cave echoed with excited shouts. Again, Neville looked at St. John. The man had his face hidden in his hands. His shoulders shook as if he were laughing or weeping. Neville guessed it was the latter. As he watched the soldiers cheering and moving to surround Miss Beamish, he bit back a curse.

  Everything that the Prince Regent had feared might be happening at Novum Arce was unfolding in front of his eyes. He had to find a way to alert the government. But how could he without endangering Pris and Lord Beamish’s servants more?

  PRISCILLA BLEW out the lamp in her bedchamber and tiptoed to the door. Miss Redding was asleep, her cough eased by a powder Aunt Tetty had sent with Roxanne. Priscilla kept hot water available on the hearth so it would be ready if Miss Redding needed another dose.

  Now Roxanne was back at the magistra’s house. Neville had sent a message he would share what he had found at the baths as soon as he could, but the century was undergoing long hours of training and no one was excused. After the evening meal, Priscilla had carried an armful of blankets that would become her bed into her office. She could have slept on the floor beside her bed, but she did not want to chance someone happening to see Miss Redding when Priscilla came out to start her day.

  Closing the bedroom door, she shivered. One of the windows had been left open, and the chilly night air flooded her office. She dropped the blankets on the floor then went to close the window. A furtive motion caught her eyes. Someone was crossing the century’s training field. Who was out there at such a late hour?

  For a moment, she dared to hope Neville had slipped out of the barracks. She wanted to learn if he had found anything significant at the baths or if it had been a dead end. She hoped he could remain at her office tonight. Not that they would h
ave any privacy with Miss Redding in Priscilla’s bed, but they could have some time together in the darkness while the older woman snored through the night.

  A flutter of a long skirt shattered that hope. The person skulking across the training ground was a woman. Dousing the dim lamp on her table, Priscilla drew the shutters back so she had a good view of the street and the open area beyond it. The moonlight sparked off the woman’s jewelry, and she gasped. Only one person in Novum Arce wore that much silver, gold, and gems.

  Bellona!

  Was she on her way to a tryst? But why would she be sneaking across the compound instead of having her paramour come to her luxurious home?

  An anger she did not recognize twisted through her middle as she wondered if Bellona was on her way to coerce Neville into becoming her lover. Imagining tearing out the young woman’s hair was not a proper thought for the former wife of a vicar, but she did not try to curb it. Neville was her husband, and she was not going to share him with another woman.

  She trusted Neville, but she also trusted that Bellona would not care about anything and anyone as long as she got what she wanted. If Bellona threatened Priscilla, Neville would capitulate in order to protect her. She hoped he realized surrendering one’s will to Bellona could mean never escaping the webs she spun. Oh, how she wished she had told Lord Beamish that he needed to get someone else to find his missing daughter!

  Grabbing her dark cloak, Priscilla tied it around her neck. She drew the hood over her head and pulled it across her gown so no hint of her light hair or her white gown would catch the faint moonlight and pinpoint her location. As she reached for the door, she paused, wondering if it was safe to leave Miss Redding. Still, an earlier dose of the powder had left the old woman sleeping for almost ten hours. She would be back long before the woman awoke.

  The streets were silent. Priscilla kept to the shadows as she hurried to catch up with Bellona without letting the baron’s daughter know she was being tailed. Her eyes widened when she realized Bellona was on a direct course to the gate. Bellona came to a sudden stop. Priscilla jumped into the deeper shadows and pressed against the cold stone wall of a building. Why was the magistra looking up at the fells?