Gentleman's Master

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Neville did not reply. He stared at Mr. Cross, and the leader of the Order lowered his eyes first. Calling orders to his men, Mr. Cross aimed his rage at them. When Neville gestured to be silent, Edgar was about to protest but obeyed. None of them moved until the thieves had ridden away into the darkness.

  Only then did Priscilla say, “Neville, we must get you back to Rossington Hall and get you tended to. Don’t argue with me. You need to rest.”

  “I am not going to argue with you.” His shoulders sagged. “I feel as if I have wrestled the devil.”

  Edgar helped Neville onto his horse and then assisted Priscilla. He smiled at her “thank you.” Silently, she thanked her older daughter for Daphne’s insight about Edgar’s attraction to Agatha. A few words had been all that was necessary to bring Agatha into his arms and Edgar into accepting that Priscilla and Neville wished to help the highwaymen.

  Traveling by the road meant a longer trip back to Rossington Hall, but Priscilla knew the brush of a single branch could be enough to send Neville out of the saddle. Neither man protested, so she guessed their thoughts matched hers.

  But she was unsure her choice had been wise when two riders on dark horses came at a ripping speed along the road. She grasped Neville’s rein to pull his horse beneath the trees, then paused when she heard his name shouted. Again, she recognized the voice.

  “Mr. Goodman!” she called to the justice of the peace. She squinted through the dim light and realized Constable Kenyon rode with him.

  “What are you doing out at this hour?” asked Mr. Goodman as he drew even with them.

  “We could ask the same of you,” Neville replied, sitting straight and pulling up the hood of his cloak to hide any signs of injury. “We were out for a ride, and we are on way back to Rossington’s hall. What of you?”

  Priscilla bit her lower lip to keep from telling him that he did not need to pretend with Mr. Goodman and the constable. Neville must have a reason for hiding his wounds. It could be as simple as he did not want to explain they had come to the aid of an injured highwayman. As she glanced from him to the justice of the peace and on to Constable Kenyon, she saw the young constable sat hunched in the saddle, his dark coat buttoned closed even though the night was not chill. Was he concealing something, too? Or had he seen the truth of Neville’s pain and was respecting Neville’s secret?

  Too many questions and, as always, too few answers.

  “Shots were reported,” Mr. Goodman said in his precise voice, “and I decided to come with the constable to investigate.”

  “We heard shots, too.”

  The justice of the peace scowled, the lines along his cheeks realigning themselves in the harsh light from the lantern. “Why would you continue on your ride when you have Lady Priscilla with you and only a single servant? Any of you could have been killed.”

  “We are well aware of that, Mr. Goodman. That is why we are bound for Rossington Hall.”

  “Excellent.” The justice of the peace tugged on his reins to guide his horse around them. “Come along, Kenyon. We have to catch the shooters.”

  The constable nodded, saying nothing as he followed Mr. Goodman.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Edgar asked, “Do they really expect to catch whoever fired those shots by ridin’ up and down the road?”

  “Let’s hope they do catch them,” she replied. “Before tomorrow night.”

  “Cross won’t kill ye, m’lady, if we fail to deliver the murderers by tomorrow night.”

  “Are you so sure?” asked Neville.

  Edgar did not reply which was an answer in itself. None of them could be certain what Mr. Cross would do next, but they would not forget that he was as dangerous as the killers they sought.

  Chapter Eighteen

  DAPHNE WISHED she could see the clock from where she sat by Miss Verlyn’s bed. The idea of spending time with Miss Verlyn while she healed had seemed like the very way to persuade her mother that Daphne was both responsible and willing to take on a disagreeable task. If her mother came to see that, mayhap Mama would heed Daphne’s request to allow her beloved Burke to call while they were in the country. But was that special favor worth the ceaseless prattle from Miss Verlyn who mostly talked about horses? Miss Verlyn changed the subject only to complain about fittings for new clothes for London.

  When Mrs. Betts aimed a sympathetic glance in her direction, it was all Daphne could do not to jump to her feet and scurry away. How many times had Mama insisted that a grown woman had to endure the uncomfortable times as well as the pleasant ones? “The servants have gatherings in the stables once a week,” Miss Verlyn groused, “and I wish they would stop. Their music disturbs the horses.”

  “Music?” asked Daphne.

  “Or what they consider music.” Her nose crinkled in aristocratic distaste. “I believe there is dancing.”

  “What a wonderful idea. It will be perfect!”

  “For what?” Miss Verlyn looked as if Daphne gone quite mad. “I told you that they are distressing my horse.”

  Mrs. Betts came toward the bed, folding a blanket as she did. “Miss Verlyn, your guest is speaking on behalf of her mother. Lady Priscilla has a gentle heart, as you well know.”

  “Yes.” The answer from Miss Verlyn was reluctant.

  Daphne fought not to bristle. Her mother had found Miss Verlyn by the pond and saved her life. Yet the girl acted annoyed at the very mention of her name. Such a lack of gratitude to anyone would have upset Daphne, but when it was Mama . . . She warned herself to remain calm. To react to such a slur would suggest that she was not yet adult enough to ignore poorly chosen words.

  “Lady Priscilla’s companion is sweet on Sir Neville’s valet,” went on Mrs. Betts, ignoring the tension, “and Lady Priscilla is eager to give the poor woman a chance to attract his attention. Such an assembly would be the perfect way.”

  Daphne frowned. The housekeeper had it backwards. Edgar was the first to show his interest in Agatha, who had paid him little attention . When Mrs. Betts gave the slightest nod in Miss Verlyn’s direction, Daphne understood that it did not matter. The housekeeper was helping assist her mother and Neville.

  “My mother was a vicar’s wife,” Daphne said with a smile, “and she simply cannot set aside her habit of helping those less fortunate than she. Will you do the same, Miss Verlyn?”

  “Why me?”

  “Agatha will need something lovely to wear. My clothes and my mother’s are a mess from being packed for our journey. Didn’t you say you had some dresses you planned to donate to the poor box?”

  Miss Verlyn’s nose wrinkled again. “But we are talking about servants having a gathering in a stable. Why does she need something fancier than her usual clothing?” Not waiting for an answer, she gestured weakly toward the cupboard. “Take whatever you wish. From the right side of the cupboard. I am not interested in arguing.”

  “Are you feeling worse today?” Daphne asked while Mrs. Betts hurried to select a gown. “You were doing so well yesterday.”

  The housekeeper peered around the cupboard door. “She would heal more quickly if she would stay in bed as the doctor ordered instead of wandering about at night.”

  “How can I sleep at night when I am imprisoned in this room all day?” Miss Verlyn’s lips tightened until they were as colorless as her face. “And I would appreciate you keeping your snooping to the others in the family, Mrs. Betts.”

  “I was not . . . Ouch!” gasped the housekeeper, drawing back her finger that was scarlet with blood.

  Miss Verlyn jumped from the bed with a startling speed. She stormed to the cupboard, reached in and pulled out a deep pink gown, shoved it toward Daphne, then faced Mrs. Betts. In a taut voice, she said, “I told you not to reach into the left side of the cupboard.” She slammed the door closed. “The modiste Mama hired left a half-f
inished gown there for me to try when I felt well enough. Touching it is as dangerous as touching a porcupine. Next time, I trust you will heed my instructions.”

  Daphne frowned as she looked from Mrs. Betts’s stricken face to Miss Verlyn’s furious one. Murmuring her thanks, she rushed out of the room. She paused and went back to steer the housekeeper out into the hallway. Leaving Mrs. Betts to be reprimanded further was too cruel.

  “My mother will bandage it for you, Mrs. Betts,” she said, guiding the housekeeper along the passage.

  “I can deal with it myself.”

  “Nonsense.” Daphne was a bit surprised when the housekeeper did not protest more. The tone and authority that worked so well for her parents seemed to be a tool she could wield, too. That was something she needed to keep in mind for the next time she discussed her dear Burke with Mama.

  THE DOOR OPENED, and Priscilla turned from the window where she watched for Neville to return. He should be resting, but doing nothing was impossible for him. She was about to greet her oldest when she saw the housekeeper by Daphne’s side.

  “Mrs. Betts! Your hand is bloody.”

  “’Tis nothing,” Mrs. Betts replied, but weakly.

  “It is something, Mama.” Daphne helped the housekeeper sit. “I thought you should check it.”

  “Your daughter is worked up over me pricking myself.”

  “Pricked?” Priscilla cradled the housekeeper’s hand on her palm. Her eyes widened. “That does not look like a pin’s work, Mrs. Betts, and you know it. Your thumb has been sliced. No pin would do that.”

  “Mayhap the seamstress left her scissors behind as well. Do not worry on my behalf, my lady. I will have it bandaged while you tend to the matters you must.”

  Priscilla was tempted to pursue the matter, but the housekeeper’s firm words warned her not to. However, she also had no intention of letting Mrs. Betts leave the room with her bloody hand unwrapped. With Daphne’s help, she convinced the older woman to wait.

  Less than five minutes later, Mrs. Betts’s thumb was mummified in white fabric. Priscilla suggested a drink of something strong would take the edge off the pain, and the housekeeper nodded her thanks. A bit wobbly, Mrs. Betts took her leave.

  “Scissors?” asked Priscilla as the door closed. “That does not look like a puncture wound, but as if she sliced it on something long and sharp. More like a knife than scissors. Yet why would Miss Verlyn keep a knife in her cupboard? I know she was frightened deeply when the highwayman stopped her carriage, but she does not need such protection in the house.”

  Daphne shrugged. “I did not look into the cupboard. Miss Verlyn stood between me and it.” She paced the room. “Something is peculiar about all this. Miss Verlyn was exhausted, but she leaped from her bed the moment Mrs. Betts was hurt. And don’t suggest it was because Miss Verlyn was concerned about Mrs. Betts. Miss Verlyn gave her such a wigging that Mrs. Betts was close to tears.”

  “Fear can give us strength we did not know we have.”

  “But Miss Verlyn does have more strength than she owns to because Mrs. Betts chided her for leaving her bed during the night to wander outside.”

  “Outside?” asked Priscilla, shocked. “Why would she be outside after dark?”

  A smile crept across Daphne’s face. “Mayhap she has been having a secret rendezvous with the constable.”

  “Daphne! Don’t jest about such things! Someone might chance to overhear and repeat it, ruining Miss Verlyn.”

  “It makes more sense than just strolling through the gardens at night.” She picked up the pink fabric she had carried into the room. “I brought this for Agatha. Miss Verlyn told me that the servants have an assembly with dancing in the stables.” She grimaced. “She was worried more about them disturbing her favorite horse than whether they enjoyed themselves.”

  “Daphne, you are brilliant!” She hugged her daughter. “The perfect solution to . . . I have said too much already.”

  “Mama, I am a grown woman. You don’t have to protect me any longer.”

  Smiling, she embraced Daphne again. “My dear daughter, you will be a grown woman when you understand that a mother’s job is to protect her children forever. From their own mistakes and from those of others.”

  Priscilla thought Daphne would protest more, but her daughter nodded and went out of the room. Staring after her in amazement, Priscilla realized Daphne was growing up. Even a few months ago, Daphne would have turned the conversation into a brangle and fled in tears. But her daughter’s maturity brought a whole group of new problems, most especially a very attentive Burke—Lord Witherspoon.

  “One problem at a time,” she said aloud as she shook out the pretty gown. “And one solution.”

  THE STABLE WAS brightly lit. Stall doors were closed, but the exercise area at the center of the grand building had enough room for the servants who had gathered for an evening’s entertainment. The orchestra was made up of one violinist and another man playing a guitar with only five strings. What they lacked in ability, they overcame with enthusiasm. Not that it mattered. When Priscilla and Neville entered with Edgar and Agatha, conversation and shouts from the dancers almost drowned out the music.

  Priscilla held Neville back while the two thieves were swept into the party. Agatha’s cheeks were a shade darker than the dress that had delighted her. She would never be mistaken for a pampered miss of the ton, but she had a beauty that came from her eager smile.

  Edgar looked as dashing. Somewhere, Neville had found him a full suit of clothes that flattered him. His boots glowed almost as brightly as the lamps and his own smile. With Agatha’s hand on his arm, he paraded between the stalls like the luckiest man on the whole planet.

  When Neville squeezed her hand, Priscilla raised her eyes toward his.

  “You are a matchmaker at heart,” he said with a laugh.

  “I like to see people happy, and once Daphne mentioned that Edgar was intrigued with Agatha, the answer was simple.” Her smile faltered. “And with luck they will be so caught up in each other that they will not notice when we sneak out.”

  “Pris, mayhap we should take the children and your aunt and beat hoof from here. The chances of catching those killers tonight are small.”

  “We told Mr. Cross that we would find them.”

  “And we tried.”

  “But we cannot go. Not until you know who slew your friend.”

  His gaze shifted from hers, and she knew he was torn. He wanted to protect her and the children, but he had vowed to avenge Watson’s death. “If you were to leave—you and the children and your aunt—”

  “No! I would rather stay and take my chances than to be fraught with anxiety about what might be happening to you. And how can we send the children and Aunt Cordelia away? Mr. Cross and his men will pounce on their carriage if we were so foolish. He would be even more furious if I try to sneak away.” She folded her arms before her. “There is nothing you can say to make me leave without you.”

  “You are a dashed stubborn woman, Priscilla Hathaway!” He put his hands on her arms. Loosening them, he drew one hand to his shoulder and then took the other. “We may as well dance.”

  “It is a quadrille, not a waltz.”

  “Do you think I care when I have the chance to hold you?”

  She smiled up at him and let him swirl her around in the stable’s doorway. If anyone took note of them, she did not see. Her gaze was focused wholly on him. In his eyes was the love that he wanted to offer her and the love he had vowed to share with her for the rest of their lives.

  Someone must have come toward them because he whirled her out of the stable to the very edge of the light. Beneath their feet was the hard ground, but she could have believed they danced on clouds. Her heart was so light with joy that she could no longer be earthbound. The music grew fainter, but the beat o
f their hearts, creating their own splendid rhythm, surged through them, propelling their feet.

  When he slowed his steps, she matched them. Slower, gentler, rocking together with the sensuous motion that suggested a more intimate dance they could share, he drew her closer. His hand slid up her back, pressing her against his firm chest. Her own fingers rose from his shoulder to sift through his hair and guide his mouth to hers. Into the kiss she put all her longing for him.

  He raised his head only far enough so he could whisper, “Sweetheart, we have waited—” His voice broke off in an oath before he added, “Look there, Pris!”

  She did not want to look anywhere but into his enticing eyes, but she shook those thrilling thoughts aside—yet again, bother!—as she turned to see what he had. And she understood why he had interrupted their moment.

  In the paddock stood a familiar sight. A pale horse that glowed in the moonlight.

  “Is it the same one the rider rode?” she whispered.

  “That is what I intend to find out. Last night I was close enough to see a darker spot that was almost covered by the saddle.” He went to the stone wall and climbed over.

  She intended to go after him, but turned when she heard her name called. Agatha stood in the doorway, motioning eagerly to her.

  With one glance over her shoulder to see Neville was approaching the horse slowly so not to frighten it, Priscilla went into the stable to discover what Agatha wanted.

  “Thank you,” cried Agatha, clasping Priscilla’s hands. “Ye ’ave made both Edgar and me so ’appy tonight. I ’ad to tell ye and Sir Neville thank ye.” She looked past Priscilla. “Where is Sir Neville?”

  “He wanted to check a horse to see if it could possibly be one ridden by those we seek.” Even now, she took care not to say anything that could reveal the truth.

  “Let me get Edgar to go with ’im.”

  “Go and dance with Edgar. If Neville finds anything amiss, we will alert you.”

  “M’lady . . .”

  “Go. We will call you if we discover anything.” She rushed out the door. A quick glance back told her Agatha was rushing back to where the next set of dances was about to begin.