Gentleman's Master

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “The missus . . .” the boy said in a stage whisper. He glanced toward the carriage.

  Neville saw Priscilla climbing out. He had long ago stopped trying to protect her from the aspects of the world of which a parson’s widow and an earl’s daughter had scanty knowledge. To own the truth, he never had started, because she had accepted him and all he embodied, first in friendship and then with love.

  “You may talk freely, lad,” he replied.

  “But she be a fine lady and all. Not like us.”

  “You might be surprised what a fine lady will listen to.” He smiled to ease the scold. Drawing Priscilla’s hand within his arm as she neared, he added, “Go ahead. Tell us how Georges was killed.”

  “His head was bashed in like a pumpkin.”

  On his arm, Priscilla’s fingers clenched as she asked, “How was it done?”

  The boy shrugged. “I don’t know. That be all I was told. Bashed head. Ye need t’ask Cross. ’e knows.”

  “I will,” Neville replied. “Tell Cross I asked, and he can send more information to us at our destination.”

  “Yer what?”

  “We are going to Rossington Hall, and we should arrive by midday. He can send the information there tonight. Tell him I—” He glanced at Priscilla and winked. “We will be waiting near the baron’s famous water garden an hour after dark.”

  The lad nodded and ran off in the direction he had come.

  As Neville turned toward the carriage, Priscilla asked coolly, “We will meet him tonight, Neville?”

  He grimaced. How could he have been so want-witted? He had just promised to delay their wedding night a few hours longer. Paying no attention to the broad grin on Edgar’s face, he clasped her hands in his.

  “The conversation will be short,” he said. “I vow that to you, sweetheart.”

  “I had not thought the ’for better or for worse’ part of our vows would start so soon.” Her icy tone was negated by her twinkling eyes.

  “You should have known better, Pris, when you married me.”

  “And you should have when you married me.” With a laugh, she kissed him lightly before letting him hand her into the carriage.

  Neville sat beside her and slapped the carriage’s side. If they could reach Rossington’s estate soon, they might be able to steal some time alone this afternoon. He glanced at where Cross’s spies watched them closely and swallowed his frustrated sigh. They would not be allowed any time alone until the murderer was found. That moment could not come soon enough.

  AS THE CARRIAGE drew closer to the country home, Priscilla could see that Rossington Hall was the perfect expression of the family’s fading power over the centuries. Even though the oldest section of the house stared out at the countryside with its windows’ vacant eyes, the walls were straight and the roof unbowed. Newer portions of the house had been built by less skilled artisans. Elegant carvings and beautiful decorations around the doors and windows could not hide how the house struggled to maintain its balance on the top of the hill. Walls slanted in every direction but straight.

  Along the avenue leading to the house, empty spots among the trees showed where some had fallen and were never replaced. The grass needed trimming, and roses grew wherever they wished, their thorns conquering everything in their path.

  “It would appear that Matthias Rossington is saving his funds to launch off his daughters,” Neville said, tapping his fingers on the carriage’s window.

  Priscilla glanced at him. She was surprised he had taken note of anything they passed because his unblinking gaze had been focused on Edgar. The highwayman’s chaperon was a rather bilious shade, and under other circumstances, Priscilla would have taken pity on the man and suggested they exchange seats. Riding backwards seldom bothered her stomach, and she had become accustomed to being consigned to the rear-facing seat in her aunt’s carriage.

  She did not make that offer. Not only would it infuriate Neville, but she was angry that neither her nor Neville’s word had been sufficient for Cross. A shiver coursed along her when she recalled Neville calling him “Double Cross.” Such a nickname would not have been given lightly.

  Rapid hoofbeats came from behind the carriage. Priscilla looked out as a rider sped by on a light gray horse. Dark green skirts flapped out behind the female rider who controlled the horse with obvious skill. The rider and the horse vanished from sight around the house.

  “It will cost him dear,” Neville continued, but she knew he had taken note of the rider. He seldom missed anything happening around him.

  “Cost whom?”

  “Rossington has spent heavily to launch his daughters.” He chuckled, but she heard strain beneath it. “After all, he does have six.”

  “Six?” That was a sobering thought. The challenge of two daughters often was as much as she could manage. To have so many . . .

  “Six,” he confirmed with another terse laugh.

  “And sons?”

  “One, but he will not be here. Rossington’s heir has taken it upon himself to sample every pleasure London has to offer. Surely you have heard of Leslie Rossington’s reputation.”

  “He is Lord Rossington’s son?”

  Neville nodded, but continued to stare at Edgar.

  “Oh, my!” murmured Priscilla, recalling what she had heard of the young man. There were tales that would make neither a mother nor a father proud. She remembered warning Daphne about the roué who had ruined several young misses with enticements and lies. “I am glad that the children are going to Aunt Cordelia’s house.”

  His gaze shifted toward her for a moment. “I am as well.”

  Glancing at Edgar and Agatha, who looked at the house with covetous glances, she knew she must say what she was thinking. “Everything in Lord Rossington’s house and upon his estate,” she said, “must remain exactly where it is when we arrive. Stealing from our host and his household is something I will not abide.”

  Edgar muttered something, but Agatha’s comment was not muted. Priscilla pretended not to have heard her rude comment about the ton and their ways. Just as she acted as if she had not heard Neville’s muted chuckle or seen his wink when, after the carriage had stopped, he handed her out.

  Edgar offered the same courtesy to Agatha, but she ignored him as she climbed out and stood beside Priscilla. His face flushed with embarrassment. He thumbed the haft of a knife that was revealed when he drew his coat back. Glancing from Neville to Priscilla, he made his unspoken threat very clear. Neville drew in a deep breath, and she guessed Edgar was about to receive a dressing-down.

  Before anyone else could speak, Priscilla said quietly, “We know why you are here, Edgar. Constant reminders may lead to your betrayal to our host.”

  “Rossington?” Edgar spat on the small stones of the drive. “’e cannot see past the end of ’is nose.”

  “Such comments will show you are not servants. It is important to portray wholeheartedly the parts you have been given to play. A single error will put an end to this before it has begun.”

  “Don’t ye mean an end to ye?” growled Agatha.

  “You need to remember,” Neville interjected, “that you are not hidden by darkness now. You must never forget—not even for a second—that when you walk through Rossington’s door, you are among the very people who would be happy to send you to the morning-drop.”

  When Agatha put her hand to her throat and her eyes widened, Priscilla guessed the term meant the gallows. Trust Neville to get to the heart of the matter. Cross’s henchmen were caught in his web, as Priscilla and Neville were.

  Neither thief spoke as Neville handed each a small bag and told them to carry the bags into the house. “Don’t put them down until you receive permission from Lady Priscilla or me to do so. You are our servants, and it will be seen as something out of the ordinary if y
ou do not obey us.”

  Slipping her hand into Neville’s, Priscilla walked with him toward the front door. She saw Stuttman’s strained smile, and she wished she could reassure him that she and Neville would be able to deal with two highwaymen. She was unsure, however, what would happen when they walked through the front door of Lord Rossington’s country estate.

  “Do you think they will go unnoticed?” she whispered so only Neville could hear her.

  “If they do not, do something outrageous.”

  She nodded, glad for his reassurance.

  “But they will notice if you flutter about like a fly in a glue-pot. You must appear as if nothing is amiss now that we have eluded the highwayman last night.” His lips straightened, and she knew he wished he could bring Mr. Watson’s murderer to justice.

  The thick oak door opened, and a man in simple black livery motioned them to enter. When Neville gave his name and requested to speak with Lord Rossington, the footman asked them to make themselves comfortable while he delivered their message to the baron.

  Priscilla saw no place to do as he asked. The simple foyer had three doors other than the one where they had entered. Only one was open, and a long passage ran toward the back of the house. The sole piece of furniture was a bench, but it looked as if someone had placed filthy boots on it just long enough for crusty soil to cling to the wood. Wisps of hay were scattered beneath it. Her curiosity was piqued. Who would enter the house here after coming from the stables? A rear door would be closer.

  She saw the two thieves eye the paintings that hung in gilt frames on the walls between the doors. Agatha walked toward a niche where a tall ceramic vase painted red and gold was placed to be admired by everyone who came into the foyer.

  “It must stay exactly where it was when we arrived,” Priscilla said quietly.

  Agatha aimed a venomous glance in her direction, but stepped away from the niche.

  The footman returned, halting any comments Agatha might have made. Asking them to follow, the footman did not look back to see if they would comply.

  With her hand on Neville’s arm once more, Priscilla took several deep breaths to calm herself. He patted her hand, and she gave him a shaky smile.

  They went silently along the passage, then the footman turned right. Another corridor led to a sunny, light blue chamber that offered a view of a garden bursting with flowers and bushes. None looked as if they had been trimmed in more than one summer, but the colors were so lovely she could ignore the weeds.

  A rotund man with bright red hair got up from where he had been playing cards with three women. Another trio sat closer to the window, intent on the embroidery they held. As the man, whom she guessed to be Lord Rossington, smiled and began to greet them, a door on the far side of the room opened.

  Yet another young woman burst in, pushing her ruddy hair back beneath her cap. Her eyes grew round when she saw the newcomers, and she edged over to take the seat Lord Rossington had vacated. Even with her face downcast, the telltale pink of a blush brightened her cheeks.

  “Lord Rossington,” the red-haired man said, extending his hand toward Neville at the same time he aimed an irritated glance at the young woman in his chair. “Hathaway, welcome.” His smile broadened. “And you must be his lovely wife, Lady Priscilla.”

  She let him bow over her hand, but did not reply as he began to introduce the others in the room. His wife was one of the women playing cards. That was simple, but as he spouted off the other names quickly, Priscilla hoped she would be able to attach the right name to the right daughter. The eldest, who also sat at the card table, Miss Sharon Rossington, was as tall as her father, but had her mother’s dark hair. Miss Katherine, seated beside her, was the next, and she barely whispered a greeting, so Priscilla guessed she was shy. The next three—Miss Treva and Miss Anna and Miss Orinthia—were gigglers. Only the youngest, the one who had rushed into the room and blushed, Miss Verlyn, seemed to stand out from the gaggle of sisters. Not only was she wearing a green habit, identifying her as the skilled rider who had passed the carriage, but she alone had her father’s red hair. She possessed a fragile beauty; yet her deep green eyes gazed steadily at Priscilla. Was the baron’s youngest, who must be a year or so older than Priscilla’s daughter Daphne, the only one to inherit the strength of will that once had been part of the family’s heritage?

  It was a question she could not ask. Polite society would deem it completely rude. She noticed Lord Rossington glancing past them with a puzzled expression. Knowing what he was about to say, she gave him a wide-eyed expression of dismay.

  “My lady?” he asked with the polished manners he clearly had not passed along to his infamous son. “What is wrong?”

  “I hope you do not think me too forward when I asked our servants to join us in the parlor.” She ignored the shock on both the baron’s face and his family’s. “The journey has been a great strain, and I know Agatha will not allow me out of her sight until she is satisfied that nothing untoward will happen.”

  Neville’s eyes glistened with amusement at how she twisted the truth, but did not speak an actual out-and-outer. If other ears had not been present, she would have reminded him that it was a skill she had learned from him. As it was, she had to concentrate on making herself appear pathetic.

  Lady Rossington rushed forward in a wave of ribbons and ruffles and took Priscilla’s hands. “Mr. Goodman called to tell us of your interrupted journey. Lord Rossington wishes immediate notice of all attacks. I wish you had come directly here after that horrible highwayman stopped your carriage.”

  So do I, Priscilla wanted to reply. “We are relieved to find shelter here now.”

  “Is there anyone we can contact so they will know you are safe?”

  Priscilla shook her head. “My children are staying with my aunt now. We are meeting them at Aunt Cordelia’s country estate.”

  “Surely, they will wish to know you are unhurt.”

  “They don’t know anything about this. There is no need to reassure them now that the danger is past.”

  Lady Rossington smiled. “Do not fret, Lady Priscilla. You need only rest now that you have found a haven.” Her smile wavered. “You will promise not to speak of your experiences to anyone who calls, will you?”

  “If that is your wish,” she said, startled by the lady’s request. “But would it not be better for your neighbors to know about what has happened?”

  “They know too well. I have been determined to make each of them aware of the dangers upon our roads.” She turned to her daughters who clutched each other and shivered. “No one can doubt that.”

  “Mama has been so brave after our excruciating experiences,” said Miss Katherine, the eldest.

  “She made it her duty to alert others about these wicked people,” added another sister. Priscilla was not sure which one.

  “Think of all the lives she may have saved,” chimed in a third.

  All the sisters began to talk at once, each one trying to impress on the new arrivals how brave and caring Lady Rossington was. No, not all the sisters. The youngest—Miss Verlyn—continued to comfort the sister who sat across the table from her. Did Lady Rossington not see how distressed her daughters were?

  No, because Lady Rossington basked in her daughters’ approval. She must have done the same with her neighbors, savoring how they acknowledged her bravery when facing such low and despicable creatures, as she repeated at every opportunity. She did not want Priscilla to speak of her own experiences. Lady Rossington must want to regale her neighbors with the tale herself.

  “See ’ow fine she would be without ’er ’usband’s money and fancy ’ouse,” grumbled Agatha behind Priscilla, too low for their hosts to hear.

  Priscilla was about to warn her to silence, but Edgar muttered, “Stow it! Remember why we be ’ere.”

  “Extraordinar
y, my lady,” Neville said when their hostess paused to take a breath. “Could we continue this while Lady Priscilla sits? After the highwayman halted us, she found it impossible to sleep last night.”

  “You poor dear!” Lady Rossington linked her arm through Priscilla’s and steered her to the settee in front of the biggest window. As her daughters jumped to their feet and out of the way, she added, “You must tell me everything. Everything! Then I shall tell you all that we endured.”

  “I doubt our circumstances are different,” Priscilla said, silencing her groan at the idea of hearing the lady repeat in lurid detail all that had happened when the highwayman stopped their carriage.

  “Mayhap so. Mayhap not.” Neville smiled when she flashed him a scowl. “Who knows? By going over the events, we might find some similarity that will help the constable.”

  Lord Rossington snorted inelegantly. When his wife began to chide him, he waved her aside. “I never again will agree with Goodman when he appoints someone to serve as constable. Kenyon has been useless.”

  Priscilla’s eye was caught by Miss Verlyn’s head jerking up. The young woman wore a rebellious expression, and Priscilla half-expected her to retort. Instead, she quickly lowered her head. But Priscilla had seen enough to know, from seeing similarly obstinate frowns on her daughters’ faces, that Miss Verlyn disagreed with her father’s assessment of Constable Kenyon. Were she and the constable friends . . . or could it be more, as unlikely as it was for a baron’s daughter to pine for an untitled constable? Her daughter Daphne tended to wear such a scowl whenever anyone suggested she might want to spend more time with gentlemen other than Lord Witherspoon.

  “Useless?” Neville asked, drawing her attention back to him. “Useless at stopping the highwaymen or stopping the one slaying them?”

  “What are you talking about?” The baron looked confused.

  “Someone is hunting highwaymen in this parish and killing them. Have you heard nothing of that?”

  “Hathaway, I fail to understand why any of this should concern us. If the highwaymen are being slaughtered—”