She looked at him, then pressed her hands to her mouth, as she realized how she had betrayed herself. He saw her apology in her pretty blue eyes.
Wishing he could clamp his hand over her eyes and banish from her head the memory of all she had seen, he resisted the temptation to tell her that the fault was his. First, he should have refused to allow her to come there. He had not, sure she would have followed. Second, he should have known Cross would do whatever he must to force them to his will. And, most important, he had let himself forget—again!—that Priscilla was a foreigner in the world of thieves and cut-purses. She knew well the minds of the ton, but had not fathomed the depths that someone like Cross could plumb.
He scowled at Cross. The man was grinning like a cat who had cornered a mouse. At that moment, he recognized defeat. He had nothing left to negotiate now that Priscilla had seen where the Order met. Cross would accept only his acquiescence. Anything else would endanger Priscilla more.
“What do you want, Cross?”
“Same thing. Find the murderer and bring him back to me and my mates. He knows the penalty for turning against his own kind.”
“You are so certain a member of the Order is behind these deaths?”
“Who else?”
Neville almost laughed. There were plenty of people who would be glad to see an end of highwaymen. “Are you so certain it is a brother thief?”
“No one else cares if we live or die.” He shrugged. “Find the killer, and then we shall know fer sure, right?”
“I will try—we will try for the first, but the constable must take custody of the murderer.”
“He can have wot’s left.”
“Now see here, Cross—”
Priscilla put her hand on his arm. “There is no need to argue about the disposition of the murderer now. We have to find him first. To do that, you must let us leave and begin our work.”
“Just like that?” Cross’s grin widened.
Neville started to reply, but Priscilla said even more quickly in her most matter-of-fact voice, “Yes, just like that.”
Cross drew in a deep breath and seemed about to explode. Neville put his hand over Priscilla’s on his arm, but she did not move toward him as she stared at Cross with the same cool expression she wore when her son misbehaved. She was brave, yet she had no idea how violent the highwayman’s temper could be.
Then Cross laughed. Hard.
Behind him, Neville heard anxious voices. Did the other thieves think their leader was deranged?
“M’lady,” he said in a mocking tone, “yer fine manners have blinded ye. I am not lettin’ ye and Hathaway go without knowin’ that ye will not betray me.”
“Why would we do that when we want the same outcome?” she asked. “We all want to find the murderer.”
“I know wot I want, but I want to be certain that ye will not run off at the first opportunity.”
“We gave you our word. Is that not enough?”
“No.”
“Save your breath, Pris,” Neville said, “He will not relent when he has the upper hand.” Locking his gaze with Cross’s, he snapped, “Tell us your terms and be done with it. We have wasted enough of the night on your theatrics.”
“Somethin’ ye know far better than I do.” Cross grinned widely again. He broke Neville’s gaze and turned to Priscilla, “Did ye know wot yer fine husband used to be? An actor!”
“Of excellent renown,” she answered, “as I understand.”
That he could not vex her added to Cross’s annoyance. Whirling toward Neville, he snarled, “Ye can leave, but not alone.”
Neville nodded. Finally, having realized he could do little to discompose Priscilla, Cross had gotten to the point. “I expected that you would want to send someone you could trust to make sure we do as you wish. Who will be your eyes and ears?”
Cross put his fingers in his mouth and released an ear-rending whistle in a strange pattern of two short toots and three long ones. All the thieves froze, then moved aside to let a man and a woman step out from among them.
Neville eyed them cautiously. The man was almost as tall as Neville, but the woman was shorter than Priscilla. The man had red hair, and hers was as dark as Neville’s. They appeared to be in their early thirties, but it was difficult to tell when their faces were so grimy that it appeared they had not bathed in several years. Their simple clothes were splattered with mud and what he suspected was ale.
They stared at Neville and Priscilla as if they stood at the feet of gods. Cross muttered something, and both squared their shoulders in the imitation of soldiers about to march into battle.
Neville swore silently. He had not guessed Cross had such control over the thieves. Cross had bragged years ago of how he would become as powerful as the king and the Regent combined. It seemed that he had done exactly that. He had become the king of a scraggly group of highwaymen and their women, and that made him dangerous. Neville doubted there was anything said or done in the shire that one of Cross’s minions did not know within minutes.
“Show m’lady yer manners,” ordered Cross.
“Edgar,” the man said in a remarkably deep voice. He tipped his cap toward Priscilla.
As if they stood at court and were being formally introduced, Priscilla bowed her head toward him.
“Agatha.” The brunette dipped in a curtsy that suggested she had not been a thief all her life. She possessed the grace of a serving maid, and Neville wondered why she had been shown the door. Had she been let go for stealing, or was that a habit she had gained afterwards?
“Go with Hathaway and his lady.” Cross flashed a superior smile at Neville. “Don’t let them out of yer sight. Day or night till they bring me the murderer. Me, not the constable!”
“Aye,” Agatha answered.
Edgar nodded.
“And ye understand, Hathaway?”
Neville made sure his face was expressionless as he stared at the thief. Again Cross looked away first, and Neville saw his minions exchange a glance. Like most thieves, they were well-schooled in judging any outward sign of emotion, because they needed to know, even before their victims did, how their prey would react.
“I will send a boy at dawn,” Cross said, his sneer returning, “with further instructions.”
“Further?” Neville snarled out the single word. How dare Cross act as if Neville did not have the brains of a beef-head! Neville’s word had always been good, no matter which layer of society he spoke it in. Cross should know that.
Cross recoiled .”Further information. M’boys are buryin’ Watson by the churchyard wall, and they can tell me more ’bout how he died when they come back.”
“No detail should be considered irrelevant,” Priscilla said.
“One for the gory parts, are ye?”
“No.” She gave a gentle shiver, but her gaze remained on Cross. “But no detail should be skipped on the small chance it might be the very clue we need to bring this killer to justice.”
“To bring this killer to me.”
“Mr. Cross, I believe that has already been discussed.”
Neville struggled not to laugh at the highwayman’s shock at her calm answer. Offering his arm to Priscilla, he said nothing when she put her hand on it. Dismay widened her eyes, and he guessed she had expected him to give her a conspiratorial wink, as he often had. At the moment, such frivolity was far from his mind.
He led her up the aisle to the left of the altar. Behind them, Cross’s two spies followed like not-so-silent shadows. He hoped they had horses, then, as he opened the door from the church porch, saw it was not a problem. A carriage waited near the door.
Not a carriage. His carriage.
Stuttman rushed to him. “I did not hesitate when I was told you needed me to bring the carriage. I hope it was no
mistake.”
“None at all.” He clapped his coachman on the shoulder. “It will be easier for Lady Priscilla.”
She fired him a glower, and he grinned in spite of himself. Teasing her was always the antidote to the dismals.
“And for me,” he added to bring a smile to her lovely face.
Behind them Edgar was a grumpy wraith, bemoaning the fact that their mounts were tied to the carriage and he would be half-blinded by the carriage walls. “Anyone, even that beef-headed constable, could sneak up on us. Not natural for a man to ride inside when ’e’s outside.”
“Ye just say that coz ye be jealous of the toffs wot got carriages,” Agatha returned with a dismissive sniff. “I am ’appy to ride in such fine style.”
As the two continued to argue, Neville led Priscilla to the carriage. He opened the door and held out his hand to help her in.
She leaned toward him and whispered, “It will be all right. You have allies among Cross’s men.”
“I know.”
“They will be eager to help us find this murderer and put an end to the killing spree.”
“I know that as well.”
“Then why do you look so down-pinned?”
“Because,” he said, looping his hand behind her nape and tipping her mouth up toward his, “I had not expected to have chaperones on our honeymoon.”
He guessed her eager kiss was intended to make him feel better. It only made him feel worse . . . and determined to find the killer immediately.
FINGERS OF LIGHT were inching up over the eastern horizon as Neville paced near the inn’s stable. They had returned more than four hours before, but had spent every minute being eyed by Cross’s watchdogs. His not-so-subtle hints that Edgar and Agatha should enjoy a few pints in the tavern had come to naught. So instead of the wedding night he had anticipated, he had sat on an uncomfortable bench beside Priscilla while the two thieves flinched at every noise in the inn.
When the silence became intolerable, he had suggested they prepare to leave. For Agatha and Edgar such preparations meant tossing a sack over a shoulder. He had intended to help Priscilla pack, but he could not bear the sight of her folding that lovely nightgown and putting it in her small bag.
Now Priscilla sat in the carriage with Agatha perched by one door and Edgar by the other. They clearly had been instructed not to allow her to flee. Another sign that the leader of the highwaymen’s alliance knew nothing about her. If he had, Cross would know she preferred to face danger head-on.
Neville had to own that Cross had chosen his spies well. Agatha was close enough to Priscilla’s size, so she could borrow a clean gown and a bonnet for her role as a lady’s maid. Edgar had managed to find a decent waistcoat and breeches, but wore one of Neville’s coats. He still needed to shave, and Agatha’s hair was stuffed into the bonnet to hide the tangles she had not had time to remove. If no one looked too closely, they should not cause too much curiosity.
He chuckled humorlessly. Few in the Polite World paid attention to other people’s servants, save when they needed service. He suspected even if the Cross’s two minions had worn riding clothes, their upcoming host would have taken no notice. Yet the servants in the household would have, so the disguises were necessary.
He heard a throat being cleared and looked up to see Stuttman seated on the box, ready to leave. He shrugged and continued pacing. Maybe he could outwalk his thoughts that told him he had been a fool to come through Suffolk where his past was not buried deeply. If he had suggested to Priscilla that they go elsewhere, she would have asked him with her warm smile exactly where they could go in England that his past did not linger.
If he had guessed the highwaymen now held their meeting so close to this inn, he would have avoided it. But how was he to guess that someone was stalking knights of the pad? Was it another highwayman, as Cross believed, or was it someone else? Eliminating one’s rivals was a time-honored tradition among thieves, but if the murderer was not a highwayman, there must be another reason for the killings. He hoped it was a rogue knight of the pad. Otherwise, the situation was far more complicated.
A horse shook its head, rattling the harness and pulling Neville from his dreary thoughts. Where was the boy Cross had said he would send? He should have been here an hour ago. If Neville had known the lad would be so long in arriving, he would not have rushed Priscilla into packing away that beautiful lacy nightgown. He would have suggested she put it on so he could take it off. Instead of waiting out here in the damp and cold, they could have spent the last hour in each other’s arms.
If he could have convinced their two guards to spend that hour in the tavern having a pint or two of ale . . .
Dash it! No man should have his honeymoon interrupted by such a jumble. Cross must be laughing at how he had made a shocking mull of Neville’s plans for the night.
Something moved in the shadows. Neville paused when he saw a tall form emerge. Constable Kenyon! The man had a knack for being in the wrong spot at the wrong time. If he could be in the right spot just once, then Neville and Priscilla might never have been dragged into this muddle.
“Good morning, constable,” he called. He wanted to alert Priscilla and the others, so Cross’s spies did not think he was conspiring with the constable to escape their watchful eyes.
“Sir Neville!” The young constable almost tripped over his feet in an effort to rush to the carriage. He must have heard the muffled snicker because his ears grew so red that the color was visible in the faint light. “You are leaving early.”
“The day is fair at its dawning,” he said with a feigned smile, “but who knows how the weather will be as the day goes forward? You are up early, as well.”
“I am on my way to seek my bed now.” He rubbed a hand against his eyes. “Out all night looking for those shabs who travel the road and prey on others.”
“And the one killing them?”
Kenyon stared as if Neville had suddenly turned green. “Why would I care about dead knights of the pad? They stepped over the line when they stopped Lord Rossington’s carriage. When I think of even a hair being harmed on Miss Verlyn’s head . . .” He colored again. “I mean any of the ladies. I cannot endure anything happening to them.” His hands became fists. “I want to capture the thief who halted them and see the cur hanging from the gallows after I put the noose over his head myself.”
Neville nodded, letting the constable rant. Kenyon had tipped his hand by speaking of Miss Verlyn, who must be one of the baron’s daughters. He clearly had a tendre for her, even though the baron’s wife would most likely put a halt to such a courtship before it began.
Then he saw someone else in the dusk. Whoever stood there was waving his arms wildly, freezing when Kenyon swung his own arm to emphasize a point. It must be the lad Cross sent. The child would not step forward as long as the constable prattled in the stable yard.
“I should not keep you from your well-deserved bed,” Neville said as soon as Kenyon paused to take a breath. “And we should be on our way.”
“Where are you bound?”
“My wife’s aunt has an estate north of here, which is our ultimate destination. Today, however, we plan to give Lord Rossington and his family a look-in.”
Envy exploded in the young constable’s eyes, and Neville knew Kenyon’s case of calf-love was deep.
“Have a safe journey,” the constable replied. He started to put his fingers to his cap and bow in Priscilla’s direction, then paused, frozen in a peculiar position. “I did not realize you were traveling with so many servants.”
“So many?” asked Priscilla, showing that she had listened to every word. Her light laugh seemed to sparkle like dew glistening in the dawn light. “Neville, do not heed him, because I swear I shall not travel with so few servants ever again.”
Neville gave a shrug and a grimace tha
t he hoped the constable would translate as, Women! What can we do with them?
Kenyon must have, because he nodded sympathetically to Neville. He aimed another bow toward the carriage, then continued on his way to the back door of the inn. Was he looking for breakfast before getting some sleep?
Not moving, Neville watched the door close behind the constable. He shifted his gaze toward the thinning shadows. In a low voice, he said, “He is out of sight now. Come here.”
The boy who stepped forward could not have been any older than Priscilla’s ten-year-old son Isaac. Neville changed his mind as the lad came closer, breathing heavily as if he had run all the way from the church. Even though the boy was no taller than Isaac, his features suggested he had lived several more years.
Dressed in rags even more tattered than what Edgar and Agatha had worn, the boy put his fingers to his forelock, then yanked them down. Neville guessed Cross’s voice echoed in the boy’s head, telling him that Neville once was accepted as a member of the highwaymen’s alliance.
“Yes?” Neville asked, not hiding his impatience. “You were supposed to be here nearly an hour ago.”
“Got delayed,” he panted.
“By what?”
All color flushed from his face. “’Nother one of us is dead.”
Chapter Six
NEVILLE DID NOT need to ask the question, because the lad’s ashen face revealed the truth. Even so, he asked, “Murdered?”
“Yes.”
“Who was it?”
The lad’s brow wrinkled. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but isn’t that what yer supposed to find out?”
“Not the murderer. Who was killed?”
“Oh. Georges.”
The name was unexpected. “A Frenchman?”
“His family was French, but he was a good Englishman, born right here. Now he died right here.” The boy wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“How did he die?”
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