Gentleman's Master

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “I am questioning if it was his.”

  “We needed help with so many people on this estate.”

  Neville snorted a low laugh. “And now you need help keeping Lady Priscilla’s son from leading them on a reign of mischief. Agatha is overmastered by them.”

  “Then I should help her.” Edgar pushed past him with the fervor of a starving man reaching for a crumb of bread.

  Neville arched his brows, but said nothing as he watched Edgar go to stand beside Agatha. Edgar put out his hand, then jerked it back before he could touch her. Neville had never seen such an uncertain expression on the man’s face. Could three young scamps—four, if he included Leah, and she would not be left out of any deviltry—daunt Cross’s watchdogs as neither he nor Priscilla had been able to do?

  No matter. He had other issues to deal with now. Brushing dust from the stables off his coat, he set a smile on his mouth and walked into the pavilion. Priscilla glanced in his direction. Curiosity and anxiety mixed openly on her face, astonishing him. Then he wondered why he was surprised. No one at Rossington Hall, in spite of outward appearances, was unaware of the danger that stalked through the shadows. But did any of them realize how close that peril lurked?

  “Good afternoon, ladies.” He bowed his head toward the baroness and Aunt Cordelia before taking a seat next to Priscilla. He heard Aunt Cordelia say something under her breath about a lack of manners in not waiting for an invitation to join them, but he paid her no mind.

  Neither did Lady Rossington, he noted. Now that was truly a surprise. Priscilla’s aunt was considered du meilleur rang, of the highest standing among the Polite World, and the baroness should be eager to court her to gain her daughters entrée to the finest addresses in Town. Mayhap there was more to the lady than he had believed, for she took her cues from Priscilla rather than her aunt.

  “How is Miss Verlyn?” he asked.

  “Resting.” Lady Rossington opened a fan and wafted the silk and feathers in front of her. “I daresay only because I had laudanum put into her luncheon tea. As I was explaining to Lady Priscilla and Lady Cordelia, the girl was determined to go to the stable to see how her horse fared.” She shook her head. “Imagine that!”

  “She has a kind heart,” Priscilla said, as she handed him a cup of tea.

  “I had hoped she would outgrow her adoration of horses and think about a daughter’s responsibilities.” The baroness, once started, began to vent her spleen. “Her sisters are eager to do their duty and find good husbands. Verlyn? She thinks only of horses and insists that she does not need to go to London to obtain a husband.” She clenched her hands on the table. “That girl should have been born a boy.” She shook her head. “She would sneak out of her lessons, even as a young child, to spend time in the stables. Take care if you ride with her, Lady Priscilla. She will take any fence.”

  “I will remember that. She sounds much like Leah, who believes that restrictions are for cowards.”

  With a heartfelt laugh, the lady nodded. “They do sound like two of a kind.”

  “It is just as well that Leah is more interested in annoying her brothers now. Who knows what sort of trouble the two girls could get into otherwise?”

  “I know all too well. Verlyn may be younger, but she leads her sister Anna into trouble. It has been that way since Verlyn could walk.” She sighed, lifted her cup, then lowered it untasted. “She is such a trial, Lady Priscilla. I thought she would outgrow silly thoughts, but they seem firmly implanted in her head. She treats that young constable as a suitable suitor.”

  “Constable Kenyon wooing Miss Verlyn would save you the trouble of firing her off in London,” Neville said, as he reached for a cake.

  Lady Rossington’s eyes widened until white circled her brown irises. “Do not say that even in jest! Yes, I was foolish to allow them to be friends as children, but who would have imagined that they would remain so? I wish Mr. Goodman had not named Mr. Kenyon as constable. It has given him carte blanche to call here too often. How can Verlyn believe that a man who holds the title of constable for only a year be as worthy as a titled lord?”

  Neville opened his mouth to reply, but Priscilla frowned in his direction. She was familiar with his opinion that some peers had fewer brains than their steeds.

  “Now the young fool acts,” the lady continued, “as if he has as much swank as a London gentleman.”

  “He seems quite reserved,” Priscilla said.

  “So I thought, until he had the temerity to ask for a private conversation with Lord Rossington.”

  “To ask to court Miss Verlyn?” asked Aunt Cordelia, not willing to be left out of the conversation.

  “Can you imagine the gall?” Lady Rossington bristled with outrage. “I would never consider allowing one of my daughters to marry so far below her station and ruin her life.”

  “And her family name.” Aunt Cordelia shot a triumphant glance at Priscilla.

  Priscilla was tempted to remind her aunt that, unlike when she had married a vicar, she was now married to a baronet. Her aunt would be furious, because after years of deriding Priscilla for marrying beneath herself, she would have to eat those words now. A baronet was an acceptable match, especially when he was plump in the pockets like Neville.

  Knowing she should remain silent, Priscilla could not help asking, “How would the match of a youngest daughter to an upstanding public servant damage the family’s reputation more than the antics of your son in London?”

  “Priscilla!” chided Aunt Cordelia while Neville struggled to restrain the guffaw clamoring in his throat. He had been unsure how much abuse Priscilla would allow the baroness to heap on the young constable’s head. Her sense of fair play was clearly defined, and it had less to do with birth than with how one lived one’s life.

  Lady Rossington regarded Priscilla coolly. “Our son is my husband’s responsibility. Our daughters are mine, and I will not allow one to besmirch this family’s name.”

  “From the constable’s reaction to the attack on Miss Verlyn,” Neville drawled as if they spoke of nothing more important than the weather, “I would say you have already lost that battle, my lady.”

  “Oh, dear!” She stared at him in dismay. “I do hope you are mistaken, Sir Neville.”

  Aunt Cordelia’s nose wrinkled. “You were mistaken as well to join us when you reek of the stables. We will be glad to keep your tea warm while you change.”

  “That is kind of you,” he replied in the same sugared tones that she used. “However, I wish to share some information I garnered at the stables, and it cannot wait.”

  “Do share it!” urged Priscilla before her aunt could retort.

  He came to his feet and motioned toward the far end of the pavilion where they could speak without the children overhearing. Drawing back each lady’s chair, he exchanged an uneasy glance with Priscilla.

  He bent to whisper as he helped her to her feet, “Did I ever mention, Pris, how glad I am that we have only two daughters?”

  She smiled and patted his arm. “Don’t forget Isaac is one of three sons now.”

  “Three boys are much simpler to deal with than six daughters.”

  The warmth of her smile stayed with him long enough for him to offer his arm to Aunt Cordelia. She glared at him, then put her fingers on his sleeve.

  None of the children seemed to notice them walking a few steps away. He looked back, and both Agatha and Edgar were busy with the youngest ones and an argument of their own. Nobody paid him and the three women any attention.

  “There is no way to say this but bluntly,” he said.

  “No way you know.” Aunt Cordelia drew her hand off his arm.

  “Mayhap.” He enjoyed their verbal jousting, but now was not the time. “So let me tell you what I learned while talking to the stablemen. They have strong opinions about what ha
ppened to Miss Verlyn, because they are familiar with—”

  “They know the man who shot my daughter? He is here at Rossington Hall?” Lady Rossington put her hand to her head and collapsed on the floor with a dull thud.

  “Why did she jump to that conclusion?” gasped Neville, as he knelt next to the senseless woman.

  Priscilla had no chance to answer as the children, Edgar and Agatha, and several servants swarmed over them. She had no chance to reply later as Lady Rossington was roused and brought with care back to the house. Consoling Daphne and the older Rossington daughters kept her busy for almost an hour. Taking the younger children to the nursery under Agatha and Edgar’s close supervision required twice that long.

  She had gone only a few steps toward the stairs leading to the lower floors when her name was called. She paused as Agatha hurried to catch up with her.

  “Edgar can tend the children,” Agatha announced before Priscilla could speak. “Let ’im see wot a ’andful the lot of ’em are.” There was a definite sense of satisfaction in her voice, and Priscilla could not help being curious what words had passed between the two.

  “One of the boys can come with me, if that would be better,” Priscilla said, reluctant to have Agatha listening when she spoke with Neville.

  “Those boys are worthless. All they want to do is play games with yer son and daughter.”

  “That is what children should do.”

  “Not these lads. They cannot feed their families or themselves by playin’ games.”

  “True, but they don’t have to worry about that while they are here.”

  Agatha made a grumbling response, and Priscilla did not press further. When Agatha glowered at the nursery door, Priscilla wondered if the children had upset her or something else. Mayhap Edgar was the culprit, for the two had been at odds all day.

  From beyond the windows came the sound of birds. Their carefree songs were the antidote to the hullabaloo. Now, what she really needed was to talk with Neville and discover what he had learned in the stables.

  Sneezing, Priscilla hoped the odor of sal volatile and burned feathers, used to rouse Lady Rossington, would eventually not taint each breath she drew. Agatha had been surprisingly sympathetic to the lady’s circumstances, and she had paused only a couple of times in the baroness’s chamber to touch her possessions. Once it was a silver hairbrush, engraved with the family’s initials. Another was a silk shawl draped over a chair. Each time, as soon as Priscilla looked in her direction, Agatha hastily withdrew her fingers.

  “We don’t do a panney,” Agatha had said, incensed, when Priscilla took her aside.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Rob inside houses. We go out to collect.”

  That was a term she understood. It meant being a highwayman, but Agatha had said we.

  Remembering that thought now, Priscilla asked the question she had not been able to when so many ears listened. “Tell me the truth, Agatha. When we were in Lady Rossington’s room, you said ‘we go to collect.’ Are you a—” She scanned the hallway, wary of eavesdroppers. “Are you saying that you do the same as Edgar and the others?”

  “Yes.” Pride seeped into her voice. “I am brave enough.”

  Or desperate enough, Priscilla added silently. To take on such a rough life was something few women would—or even could—do. To see Agatha, who appeared to be the perfect servant in her borrowed clothes, it was impossible to imagine her ordering carriage passengers to stand and deliver.

  “Why are ye surprised?” Agatha asked. “Ye knew I be a member of the Fraternal Order of Outlaws.”

  “Fraternal suggests a group composed solely of men.”

  Agatha laughed. “We don’t care wot the word means. We like the sound of it.”

  “Are there other women who wait to ambush travelers?” She was careful not to say “highwaymen” because the word was a lightning rod now.

  “Aye. Must be close to a dozen of us.”

  Footsteps came from two directions. She guessed the ones coming from behind them were Edgar’s. The ones hurrying up the stairs she recognized as Neville’s. She ran to him and grasped his hands.

  Neville frowned. “What is it, Pris? You are shaking. Is Lady Rossington all right?”

  “She is fine.” Turning to Agatha, she ordered, “Tell him what you told me.”

  “’Bout the women?”

  “Yes. Tell him.”

  Even though Agatha looked as if she thought Priscilla had lost her mind, she repeated what she had said. Edgar smiled at Agatha, as if hugely proud of her. Was he enjoying how disconcerted Priscilla was by this information?

  “I cannot say I am surprised, Pris,” he said when Agatha finished. “Women have always been involved in crime.”

  “I understand that, but you are failing to see the significance of women being conveyancers in this shire. Among the highwaymen who have been murdered, there is not a single woman.”

  “That may mean nothing, Pris. Their numbers are small. As well, the murderer may not be aware women ride to the crossroads.”

  “But that is my point. Even if the murderer was not aware that there are women amidst the thieves, surely he would have chanced upon a female highwayman by now. Mayhap not at first, but you saw the number of women at St.—”

  “Pris . . “

  She glanced at Neville, than at Agatha who had put her hand to her lips, as if she could halt Priscilla from saying the words that could damn her. Swallowing hard, she managed to finish, “At the place.”

  Now it was Neville’s turn to look amazed. “Were all the women there on the night sneak?”

  “Most of them,” Agatha said with a dignity she had not displayed before.

  “Gettin’ in the way of a man and ’is work,” muttered Edgar.

  Agatha whirled to him. Putting her hands on her hips, she said, “Ye don’t know nothin’, Edgar Steiber! We women ’ave done as well as ye men. Better than some.”

  “But ’tis a man’s job.”

  “Who said that?” She gave him a scowl that should have warned him to take care.

  Instead he folded his arms in front of him. “I said that.”

  “Why would anyone care what ye say?”

  “Because I am a man, and ye should ’eed wot I ’ave to say!”

  She laughed and raised her chin. “I would be glad to ’eed ye, Edgar Steiber, if ye ever said anythin’ worth listenin’ to. And ’tain’t just me who thinks that. I ’eard ’bout wot ’appened when ye went out with Michaels last month. Big mouth, no prize.”

  Edgar deflated, as if steam had been let out of him. His face reddened. “Michaels is a lyin’ cur. I saved ’is skin when ’e panicked at the sight of the constable ridin’ with Miss Verlyn. Thought Lord Rossington would ’ave ’is ’ead if he frightened Miss Verlyn again.”

  “So ye say.”

  “So I say, and ye should believe me.”

  “Wot choice do I ’ave? Michaels is dead.” She grasped her apron and pressed her face to it as she let out a heartrending moan.

  The nursery door slammed open, and the children spilled out. One of the boys carried a bare knife. Priscilla gasped, appalled.

  Edgar jumped in front of Agatha and reached under his coat.

  Neville shoved him aside and snatched the blade out of the boy’s hand. “Enough!” He held out his hand to the other boy. “Give your schliver up, too.”

  “Need it.” The boy held his head high.

  “For what? Hand it over. Now!”

  Whether it was Neville’s tone or his frown, the lad surrendered his knife. Both boys scowled at each other, then at the adults.

  “Isaac?” asked Neville, again stretching out his hand.

  Priscilla was shocked when her son laid another blade on Neville’s hand.


  “I was just taking care of it for him, Mama.” Isaac did not look repentant, only sorry it had been discovered.

  Neville squatted in front of the boys and regarded them in silence until each lad lowered his eyes. Only then, he said, “You know why you are here. You know what has happened to members of the Order.”

  “What is that?” asked Isaac, puzzled.

  Instead of answering him, Neville continued to the other boys, “Are you going to do the murderer’s job for him? Save him time and effort by killing each other so he can stalk other prey?”

  The two boys shuffled their feet uneasily as Isaac drew in a deep breath. He was about to fire another question, but Priscilla told all of them—including Agatha and Edgar—to return to the nursery because their supper would soon be delivered. She gave no one the opportunity to protest as she hooked her arm through Neville’s and went with him down the stairs.

  The sun was dropping toward the horizon by the time they entered their rooms. He brought her to him for a warm embrace and a gentle kiss. Oh, how she longed for more than that chaste salute, but to give in—even slightly—to passion now would only hone the craving that haunted them.

  “Everyone is settled at last,” she said, as she sat on the settee. “I trust you calmed Aunt Cordelia.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “You know how likely it is that I would calm her.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I left her headed for her rooms to finish her tea. I doubt she will make an appearance before the evening meal.”

  “Good.” Taking a deep breath, she released it. “Tell me what you learned at the stable. I cannot wait any longer to hear.”

  “Nor can I wait any longer to tell you. That was why I came in search of you.” He put the three knives on a table and shook his head. “Something is very wrong there, Pris.”

  “What?”

  He sat next to her, his face strained. “To start with, the horse Miss Verlyn rode when she was shot has vanished.”

  “Stolen?”

  “That was my first thought, too, but there are at least seven men working in the stables.”

  “When they were asleep . . .” she started, but he shook his head.