“You don’t find that scene laughable?” He gave her a pained expression
“No.” She glanced at the balcony doors. “I found it edifying. Miss Verlyn understands what must be done for the constable to appear a worthy suitor in her father’s eyes. At the same time, her suggestions are in the best interests of the well-being of her family and neighbors. Miss Verlyn may be the only one in this whole family with a mind that actually functions.”
“That is a damning remark about Rossington and his bevy of women.”
“But true.”
He grew abruptly somber. “Sadly, I must agree.”
THE PAVILION IN the center of the knot garden had been designed, Neville decided, by someone who suffered from nightmares about Egypt. A trio of arched windows were set into each wall. Two doors faced each other on the broader sides of the pavilion. Between each arch was a gigantic statue that he assumed were meant to depict an ancient pharaoh, even though their faces more closely resembled the patrons he had seen in the tavern of the Harriers Inn. Snakes were carved into the arches, twisting around vines with flowers that looked remarkably like the roses surrounding the pavilion. The space had been swept, but not well. Leaves clung to corners where the arches met. Draped fabric failed to conceal broken and missing glass in the windows.
As he entered with Priscilla and walked toward a long table set with fine linens and china, Neville saw the whole Rossington family waited. Save for the heir savoring who knew what mischief in London. He glanced at Priscilla and had to own that he was glad the young pup was busy elsewhere. Not that Priscilla would have her head turned by another man’s compliments. Rather, she would have seen it as her maternal duty to teach the fool some manners. He had seen her dress-down several inconsiderate men, and he believed that Rossington’s heir was likely the most inconsiderate of them all.
He waved aside Lady Rossington’s apologies at the state of the pavilion and remarked what a treat it was to enjoy tea al fresco. He was rewarded with a grateful smile from the lady and a warmer one from Priscilla.
“I can be on my best manners,” he murmured, as he seated Priscilla at the table in the middle of the arched space.
“Occasionally . . . when it serves your purposes.”
He grinned at her quiet, yet pert, response. Trust Priscilla to see through his guise that Lady Rossington and her assemblage of daughters accepted without question. Taking the chair beside hers, he put his hand over the one she had on her lap. Her fingers entwined with his.
When she drew her hand away to accept a cup of tea Lady Rossington’s oldest held out, he silenced his sigh. A motion caught his eye, and he saw Edgar near one of the sculptured hedges. Cross’s spy edged back around the hedge when he realized Neville was watching him.
What a colossal waste of time! If Cross had accepted Neville’s word that he would help, Neville could have been wandering about the shire and asking questions. It would be close to impossible to gain people’s trust when a known highwayman shadowed him.
And he would have had an opportunity for the too-long delayed honeymoon he and Priscilla should be sharing by now. Two chaperones were two too many.
Neville looked in the opposite direction and realized Miss Verlyn was seated at the far end of the table. Once more, she was the dutiful daughter, pouring tea without having to be bid, saying nothing that would halt the flow of comments that seemed to be directed by her voluble mother and other sisters. If he had not heard her heated words, he would never have guessed she possessed even a bit of emotion behind her shyness.
Neville’s attention returned to the conversation when he heard Constable Kenyon’s name spoken by the baron. Ah! A topic far more interesting than who had been calling on whom. Picking up his cup, he took a sip to hide his sideways glance at Miss Verlyn. She had, as he had expected, raised her gaze from the table and had affixed it on her father.
“It was a mistake to let young Kenyon assume such an important task,” Rossington said with a sad shake of his head. “Everyone tells me that, especially the justice of the peace. Such a position should belong to a man with more experience than young Kenyon.”
“He seems eager to do a good job,” Priscilla said, looking from the baron to his wife. “Don’t you believe so, Lady Rossington?”
“I am not sure.”
Neville took another hasty sip to hide his surprise. He had not guessed the lady would demur to her husband’s opinion. She had been outspoken. There must be more to the matter than their words suggested. When he saw the baroness sweep her daughters with a concerned glance, her gaze settling longest on Miss Verlyn, he was even more certain of that.
“From the first time we spoke,” Priscilla went on, “Constable Kenyon seemed focused on preventing you, Lady Rossington, and your family from suffering again the indignity of being stopped by highwaymen. He was impressed by how well you handled yourself in such a trying situation.”
“Was he?” The lady fairly preened at the praise. “How kind of him to think of me—of us—kindly.”
Neville took a bite of his cake to keep from laughing. Lady Rossington was so hungry for praise that she became excited at a single secondhand compliment.
“He is a friendly chap,” the baron conceded, “and I have to own that, of late, he has become more competent.”
“How fortunate you are!” Priscilla’s smile looked as vacuous as her trite words, but Neville did not intrude. He knew such remarks often prefaced a question as sharp as a rapier. And it did, because she asked, “Don’t you believe, Miss Verlyn, that the constable has done an admirable job of keeping the countryside calm in the wake of so many murders?”
Miss Verlyn sat straighter, and, for just a second, her eyes flashed with ill-repressed fury. Then the light was gone, and she looked like the shy girl they first met.
“Lady Priscilla,” she said, her voice shaking. With timidity or with rage? “You must recall that those horrid curs have preyed on the good people of this parish for far too long.”
“And for that they deserve death?”
“That is the law, my lady.”
“Agreed.” Priscilla either did not hear Edgar’s mutter or chose to ignore it. “But the law has its process, and whoever is slaying the highwaymen is not following it.”
“What does it matter?” interjected Lord Rossington. “Dead is dead.”
“I cannot argue with that.” Her smile returned as she focused it on Lady Rossington. “Nor can I argue with how delicious these cakes are. What is the flavor in the icing?”
Neville paid no attention to the discussion of baking as he pondered what he had witnessed. None of Miss Verlyn’s sisters had entered the conversation, even though they should have been as shaken by the thieves’ ambush as the youngest and her mother. Instead, they had seemed bored, as if they had heard the comments too many times. No doubt, the topic was on the lips of many in the shire, but they possessed a serenity that suggested the problem would not exist much longer. Who had led them to believe that?
The answer to that, he knew, was what Cross had asked him and Priscilla to find. The Rossingtons had that answer or, at the very least, knew people who did. And he had to have that information in order to find whoever was killing the highwaymen. Once he had that, he could set his own trap for the murderer. Not for an instant had he allowed himself to forget that was the only way he could save Priscilla’s life.
Chapter Nine
PRISCILLA DID NOT have to ask Neville how his private conversation with Lord Rossington had gone. One look at his face, set in a scowl, told her.
“Pointless,” was his pronouncement. “That man’s head is so empty that if he ever had more than one thought, they would never be able to find each other.”
“You did not think it would be so simple, did you?”
“The man truly does have two thoughts—horseflesh and marryi
ng off his daughters well. He talked of nothing else, and he intends to be highly successful with both. It’s clear that Miss Verlyn is his favorite because he believes she shares his interests.”
“That probably is true, even though I doubt our host shares her opinion that a marriage with the constable would be an excellent match.”
“Don’t you start prattling about horses and weddings like Rossington!”
She took his hands. “I shall not. And this afternoon has not been a complete waste. We did get a good feel for how the various members of the Rossington family feel about the murders of the highwaymen.”
“Thanks to you.” His smile returned slowly, drawing her eyes to his expressive lips. “You have been learning too many of my bad habits.” He drew her into his arms and up against his strong chest. “The flummery you spun for the Rossingtons at tea was astounding.”
“Rossington is weak-skulled.” She hated drawing herself out of his arms, but Agatha, who stood in the bedroom doorway, watched every move they made. As well, if she remained in his embrace much longer, she doubted she would be able to pull away, even with a witness.
Neville shrugged off his coat and loosened his cravat. “He sees no reason to be concerned.”
“Does he think the killing will halt when all the highwaymen in the shire are dead? There are always other young men—and not so young men—desperate enough that they will turn to crime to feed themselves and their families. How many more must die?”
“That does not concern Rossington. He is obsessed with trying to marry off six daughters before his son destroys the family’s name. Nothing else.” His nose wrinkled. “Where do you think he will find matches for six daughters who have so little wit amongst them?”
“Now, Neville, do not be so judgmental.”
“Why not?” His grin returned. “When we first arrived, I saw you appraising each one.”
“I would never base my opinions on a quick first impression.”
“No? From your comments since, I can see you have found each has as few wits as her sire.”
“All except Miss Verlyn. The girl cannot hide that she has a brain as well as a pleasing demeanor. She alone seems to care about more than practicing flirtations with you.”
“Flirtations with me?”
She laughed. “Oh, Neville, I know you pretended you saw none of them, but I could not keep from noting how often you sought shelter behind your teacup.”
“I was doing so in order to hide my laughter at asinine comments.”
“And not because young women were eyeing you with such interest?”
“Mayhap Lord Rossington is right to despair if his daughters are so timid with their flirting that I failed to notice. But if I had, and I had responded, would you be jealous, Pris?” He locked his fingers together behind her waist and drew her closer again. When she opened her mouth to answer, he kissed her heartily, then laughed. “Don’t say it. I have asked you that question before, and each time you have assured me that you are not a jealous woman.”
“I am not, and I trust you.” She brushed aside a dark lock that had fallen onto his brow.
He reeled back, his hand over his heart. “Oh, a double piercing to my male pride.” With a chuckle, he added, “No man wants to be considered trustworthy when women are involved, Pris. It is a great insult to the soul of the primitive remaining within us.”
“I will endeavor to remember that.” Her smile faded when she saw a motion in the dressing room.
Neville glanced over his shoulder, then mumbled what she knew was a curse. Like her, he had allowed himself to put out of his mind, just for a second, that they were being guarded closely by Cross’s minions.
“So either Rossington knows nothing or he is doing an excellent job of hiding it,” Neville said, now serious. “It could be either.”
“I think we should consider speaking with Miss Verlyn. She seems to have a true stake in Constable Kenyon’s success. If she comes to see that we share that goal, mayhap she would be willing to share what he has told her.”
“He did not seem to be in the possession of any more information than we already have.”
“But with her hand in marriage as his prize, he is sure to continue his efforts to gain more.”
Neville’s nose wrinkled. “Do you believe that Rossington would give his permission for his daughter to marry a man with no higher title than constable, and that only for a short time longer?”
“They believe it, and that is all that should matter to us now.”
“Me, yes, but I sense your matchmaking tendencies awakening, Pris.”
“I have no matchmaking tendencies. I simply like to see people happy.” She smiled. “And to be honest, Neville, they do not need a matchmaker. They need a miracle.”
“Miracles seem to be scarce at the moment.”
His voice was filled with such sorrow that Priscilla held out her hand. When he took it, she drew him to sit beside her on the settee. He gave a deep sigh and, balancing his elbows on his knees, rested his forehead on his palms. She put her hand on his arm. It took every ounce of her self-control not to run her fingers up it and across his shoulder to the strong line of his jaw. If she tilted it toward her, his lips . . .
She silenced that thought, but the yearning taunted her even as she asked, “How long did you know Mr. Watson?”
“Mister?” He smiled sadly. “He would have laughed to hear a lady speak of him so.”
“I have learned not to judge someone by their current circumstances.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I learned that from Lazarus and from you.”
“Yes, because Lazarus refused to judge me solely on my past or solely on my present situation as a baronet.”
“Are you avoiding answering me for a reason?”
He rested his cheek against her hair. “No reason, sweetheart, other than I had hoped I would not drag you further into the quagmire that is my past.”
She edged back enough so her gaze could meet his. “But you are your past as well. I want to know everything about the man who is now my husband.”
“I know.” Desire flared in his eyes, but he did no more than brush his fingers against her cheek. “But you should rest, Pris. The sun will not set until late, and you know Cross is supposed to send his messenger an hour after dark.”
“I should speak with Miss Verlyn . . .”
“After you rest.” He cupped her chin and smiled as gently as his roguish features allowed. “I need you to have your wits about you tonight when we meet the Order’s representative.”
She gasped. “You expect Cross may come himself.”
“It is possible. He will be eager for an accounting of what we have learned thus far.”
“And he will not be pleased.” She did not make it a question, because she already knew the answer. “Not at all.”
EVEN IN THE cool moonlight, the once famous water garden appeared tired and overgrown. The pond in its center was filled with reeds, and the sounds of crickets and frogs echoed from it. More weeds had overwhelmed the planting beds that wore leaves like tattered collars, revealing that no gardener had worked there since the previous autumn.
But it was quiet. Blissfully quiet. Priscilla’s ears still rang with the cacophony that the Rossington family seemed to believe was music. After dinner, Lady Rossington invited her guests to join them in the music room for an impromptu musicale. Priscilla had been delighted to accept, hoping that the music would distract her from her uneasiness about the upcoming meeting in the water garden.
All the so-called music had done was torture her ears. She had been surprised when only two of the baron’s daughters had come into the music room. Miss Orinthia had gone straight to the square pianoforte decorated with plaster friezes depicting the nine Muses of ancient mythology. The other, Miss Treva, had
walked around the green brocade settees arranged in a half circle to pick up a violin from its case on a lyre-bottomed table. Both waited until their parents and Priscilla and Neville had chosen their seats.
While Miss Treva tuned her violin, sounding much like someone tormenting a cat, Priscilla had wondered when the rest of the sisters would come into the room. They did not, and Priscilla understood why as soon as the duet began to play. There was no resemblance to music in the sounds they made. The very loud sounds. More than once, she had glanced at Euterpe, the Muse of music, half expecting to see the plaster figure on the pianoforte with her hands over her ears. Priscilla wished she could do that, but it would be an even greater insult to the Rossingtons than their daughters’ playing was to music. The discordant concert continued for an hour, and she suspected it would have continued much longer if Neville had not devised an excuse for them to take their leave. She was not even sure what he had said, because her ears had been ringing so loudly by then that every word was distorted. They had been out of the house and through two gardens before she could hear the frogs along the edge of the pond.
“Watch your step,” Neville cautioned, bringing her back to the present and the headache that remained in the wake of the performance.
Holding the lantern she carried high, Priscilla stepped around a dark mound in the center of the seashell path that once had wound through the garden. Some dog must have relieved itself there. She bumped into Agatha, who, as always, was only inches away. Again she was tempted to ask if Agatha feared Priscilla would take off in a dash and leave Agatha coughing in the dust.
“What a shame,” Priscilla said with a sigh. “This must have once been beautiful.”
“I have few doubts,” Neville replied, “that Rossington feels his money is better used to send the rest of his offspring to London along with his heir.”
“But what will his heir inherit but a house and estate falling to ruin around him?”
“I suspect Rossington has not thought that far into the future, or he expects his future sons-in-law to be generous in supporting the family seat.”
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