Gentleman's Master

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Outside, Priscilla waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She inched toward the stone fence as she blinked, trying to force herself to see better. She could see the white horse, but nothing else in the field. Just as she reached the wall, she was able to make out Neville standing beside it.

  Then she saw a shadow move behind him. A hand clamped over her mouth before she could call a warning to Neville. The warning became a desperate moan when she saw him collapse to the ground. She was released, shocking her. She did not wait to let her captor correct his mistake. Instead, she ran toward where Neville was sprawled face down. She never reached him. A sharp pain across her skull silenced the merry music coming from the stables, and it seemed as if the moon closed its eye and the darkness around her became complete.

  Chapter Nineteen

  PRISCILLA OPENED her eyes, then wished she had left them closed. Harsh light clawed like a fierce cat. She turned her face into the softness beneath her head and coughed as the reek of dampness and dirt filled her breath. Coughing or the piercing light . . . it was a horrible choice. She tilted her head back and kept her eyes closed.

  With care, she slitted her eyes open. She moaned as pain scored her forehead.

  “Pris!” came a sibilant whisper. “Pris, sweetheart, are you awake?”

  At Neville’s voice, she tried again. This time she raised her lashes slightly and kept her eyes open.

  “Pris?”

  She shifted her head in the direction of his voice and discovered his face only inches from hers. Blinking again, she tried to bring it into focus, then realized the red blotches on his left cheek and chin were marks left by someone’s fist against him.

  “Neville!” she gasped, appalled.

  “Shh,” he murmured. “The longer we can keep our captors from knowing we have regained our senses, the better.”

  Only then did she discover her hands were bound behind her back. She tried to move her legs, but they were tied together at her ankles. Moving hurt more than she had expected. Still, she turned her head to see where they were.

  A fly-speckled ceiling was laced with heavy beams. It was not far above her head, so she guessed she would be able to reach up and touch it if she could stand. A single window to her left was covered by heavy draperies that looked as if all the dust in the world had gathered in the navy fabric. She saw no other furniture than what was beneath them. The door was so low she would have to bend to get through. It was closed, and, she assumed, locked.

  “I don’t know what this place is or where,” Neville whispered before she could ask. “Without knowing how long we were senseless, we cannot begin to guess where we are.”

  Priscilla gritted her teeth as she pressed her heels against the soft surface beneath them. She tried to sit. Every muscle ached, and she wondered if they had been dragged to this spot. She ignored that thought and tried again. This time, she got up far enough that she could lean back—at an odd angle—against what was behind her. Sharp edges cut into her spine, but she wiggled herself into a sitting position.

  The surface beneath her bounced when Neville did the same. “Not quite as I envisioned it, Pris.”

  She looked up at the wry humor in his voice, then wished she had shown more caution because the simple motion threatened to send another wave of pain across her skull. “Envisioned what?”

  “Being in bed with my wife.”

  “Bed?” Shock riveted her, diminishing her pain slightly. Until now she had paid no attention to what was under them.

  The bed was just wide enough for them, but so short Neville’s bound ankles balanced on the footboard. A quilt bunched beneath them, and the paper-thin bed curtains were drawn on two sides, but open to Neville’s left.

  “Lean forward,” Neville ordered.

  She did, moving so her hands were close to his behind his back. His fingers groped at her wrists for several minutes, and she tried not to move, even as pain coursed along her shoulders.

  “Dash it!” Neville muttered. “Impossible!” He leaned toward her and kissed her cheek. “I knew Cross was cruel, but I had no idea he was this cruel.”

  She smiled because she knew that was what he wanted. “Do you think Cross did this?”

  “Who else?”

  “The riders.”

  “They would have killed us.”

  She met his pain-filled gaze as steadily as she could manage. “I am not certain of that. As we discussed last night, they are either amateurs or expert shots. If the latter, they could have killed you last night. If the former, they might not be willing to murder someone of the Polite World. Yet kidnapping does not seem to bother them. They must see something to their advantage to keep us alive now.”

  “You are developing the very clear insight of a highwayman, Pris. Soon you could be one yourself.”

  “I assume you believe that to be a compliment.”

  “Most assuredly.” He chuckled, then struggled against his bonds again.

  “You are wasting your time,” came a voice from the doorway.

  A woman’s voice!

  Priscilla’s throbbing head snapped in that direction. A mistake. She should not have moved so quickly. Everything in front of her eyes swam like a painting destroyed by a sudden shower.

  “Constable. Miss Verlyn,” Neville said as calmly as if they stood in the Rossingtons’ parlor. If he was surprised, his voice gave no sign of it.

  Priscilla’s eyes cleared. Constable Kenyon and Miss Verlyn were dressed as she had often seen them, in riding clothes. A new straw bonnet had replaced the one ruined when Miss Verlyn was shot.

  She set her own features in a bland expression identical to Neville’s, but Priscilla’s fingers curled tightly into her palms. So tightly that her nails cut into her skin. Neville might not be astonished, but she was! She had suspected that both the constable and Lord Rossington’s youngest daughter might know more than they said about the murders, yet she never had guessed both of them were playing the role of executioner.

  The two walked in, leaving the door open behind them. That suggested they were not worried about anyone intruding. A disturbing thought!

  “Don’t you want to know where you are?” Miss Verlyn asked, her lips drawn back in a sneer.

  “I assumed you would tell us,” Priscilla replied in what she hoped was as serene a tone as Neville’s. “When it suited you, that is.”

  “Randell, mayhap you want to welcome them to your house yourself.”

  The constable folded his arms in front of him. The motion drew back his coat to reveal a long-barreled pistol beneath it. Suddenly he winced and relaxed his arms.

  Priscilla swallowed her gasp. If she had any lingering doubts, his anguished expression revealed he was the one Edgar had shot in the wood. She recalled how the constable had sat hunched on his horse when they encountered him and Mr. Goodman on the way back to Rossington Hall.

  “Verlyn,” Constable Kenyon said, “take care what you say. These two are sly as well as tenacious.”

  “Sly?” Miss Verlyn laughed. “Not half as sly as we have been since the first day they arrived. That day, we knew you were there.” Her eyes glittered with triumph. “Listening from your balcony. Did you enjoy our performance?”

  “Performance?” Priscilla paused as if searching her mind, even though she knew exactly what Miss Verlyn meant. “Which one?”

  “The day you arrived. You and Sir Neville could not resist sneaking out on the balcony to eavesdrop on us.”

  “Verlyn, silence,” hissed Constable Kenyon. “She knows of what you speak. She is trying to make you feel like a fool.”

  “You are mistaken, Constable,” Neville said in his iciest tones. “Lady Priscilla has been a good friend to Miss Verlyn. You, on the other hand, have dragged her into your villainous schemes and put her life into great danger. While y
ou exacted your heinous form of justice, you left her to clean up the mess you created.”

  The constable snickered. “You might have been clever once, Sir Neville, but your station as a gentleman has blinded you. You cannot imagine a woman of quality being anything but a virtue.”

  “Miss Verlyn recruited you,” Priscilla whispered. “That is how it was, wasn’t it?” Focusing her eyes on the young woman, she continued, “You were so distraught when the highwaymen halted your carriage that you vowed vengeance on them.”

  “They are vermin,” she spat. “Meant to be wiped off the earth. Mr. Goodman was doing nothing, so I decided I must.”

  “It was you on the horse the night after Mr. Watson halted our carriage!” She could hardly believe her own words. “He would not have halted for just anyone that night when he was eager for prey, but he would have seen Lord Rossington’s daughter as a pigeon ready to be plucked. Once you lured him to the side of the road, Constable Kenyon killed him.”

  Miss Verlyn hooked her arm around the constable’s. “My father was so pleased with Randell’s efforts.”

  “Not pleased enough to let me court you,” grumbled the constable.

  “He will be! I know he will be! Wait and see, Randell. He is so upset about the attack on me that he is eager to hear every report you bring him. How can he deny us the chance to wed once the last of the highwaymen is dead or scared away?”

  “So that is your plan.” Priscilla fought the nausea roiling in her stomach. All these deaths so a young woman could marry a man her father disapproved of? The very thought sickened her, but the truth stood in front of her.

  “And all went well,” Neville added, “until one of the highwaymen fought back, shooting at you. He almost was successful in stopping you.”

  Miss Verlyn put her hand to the side of her head, then lowered it when the constable scowled at her.

  Constable Kenyon stepped forward but kept out range of Neville’s legs. “Yes, you think you are so clever.” He gazed down his nose at them. “But I saw through you right from the beginning.”

  “Did you?” asked Neville in the conversational tone Priscilla knew she could never emulate. “And what did you see?”

  “Your reputation is well known, Hathaway.”

  At the change in how the constable addressed Neville, she tensed. The man standing in front of them looked like the bumbling constable, but he seemed another person entirely. An icy aura ringed him.

  “What I was is not what I am,” Neville answered.

  “But what you were is the reason you came here.”

  For the first time, Neville looked puzzled. “I cannot follow your convoluted thoughts, Kenyon. I traveled this way to enjoy my honeymoon with my new wife. Events conspired against us, I will own, but there was no other reason for me to leave London.”

  “Really? That was not what I was told.” He stepped aside and looked over his shoulder.

  Priscilla gasped when she saw another man behind the constable. Cross! She was not taken by surprise that the highwayman was involved in the attack on her and Neville. In fact, she had assumed he was from the moment she regained her senses. What astonished her was seeing him in the company of the constable.

  Neville snarled a curse when Cross put his hands on his waist and laughed loudly at the sight of them tied on the bed.

  “Told ye t’come t’see me tonight,” the leader of the highwaymen crowed. “And here ye be.”

  “Enough!” Constable Kenyon put his hand at the back of Miss Verlyn’s waist. “Cross, we will leave it to you to dispose of them. Far enough from here that we are not suspect. I am sure you know how to make their deaths look like a fumbled robbery.”

  “Deaths?” Miss Verlyn’s face went gray. “You never said anything about killing them.”

  He tugged on her arm. “If they live, they will run right to your father with the truth. You know what will happen then.”

  “But I thought you intended to frighten them into silence.”

  Priscilla glanced at Neville. He looked at her, his face placid, but his eyes filled with astonishment. She understood because it seemed impossible that Miss Verlyn had played a part in so many deaths, but still remained naïve enough to believe her assertion. Priscilla recalled the young woman’s condescension to the house servants and her hatred of highwayman, and she knew Miss Verlyn had convinced herself that those below her in class were not human beings. Vermin had been the word she used.

  “Do not be silly, Verlyn. If you want to be my wife, this is the only way.” He dragged her from the room, pausing to give Cross a look that must have been an order.

  The highwayman closed the door. Giving them a broad smile, he said, “This be right cozy.” He drew a knife from the scabbard lashed at his waist.

  “Cross,” Neville said, all pretense of serenity vanishing, “I ask you to look into whatever heart you might still possess and let Lady Priscilla live.”

  “Neville!” she cried. He was negotiating for her life, but not his. “Stop it!”

  He ignored her. “She is not a poor woman, and with the addition of my estate, she will be a very wealthy one. Name the price of her life, and it will be paid.”

  “Neville! No!”

  “Hush, Pris! Cross, listen to me. Name your price for her life, and it will be paid. I will even provide you with a letter to my solicitor to pay the ransom.”

  “Stop it, Neville!” She swung her legs into him. The blow was ineffectual, but he looked at her. “Don’t you know that my life is worth nothing?”

  “Pris, be quiet.”

  “It is worth nothing without you.” The words burst from her with a sob. She bent her head to rest on his shoulder.

  Cross broke into applause.

  Priscilla scowled. “If you think this is for your amusement—”

  “But you two are so amusing.” He went to the window and drew back the draperies. Moonlight streamed across the bed. “And so are they.”

  Priscilla strained and saw two silhouettes she knew belonged to the constable and Miss Verlyn. Light sparked off what must be gun barrels. She looked from them to Neville who was starting to smile.

  “See, Hathaway? It was not as difficult as you were makin’ it. They eagerly stepped into the trap I set fer’m,” Cross said, coming to the bed and slicing through the ropes around their feet.

  “Double Cross, is it?”

  “I was honest with ye, Hathaway. Said I needed yer help to find who was huntin’ m’mates. Wot I didn’t say was I would be doin’ some huntin’ myself.”

  As he cut through the bonds on Priscilla’s hands, he laughed. “I needed’m both in the same place at the same time. That never happened in the wood which I discovered when I shot at’m.”

  “And hit Miss Verlyn.” She stretched her stiff fingers.

  “Aye. Aimed to knock the rider senseless, so I could capture’m and get some answers. Saw it was Rossington’s youngest, armed with a fancy sword.”

  “A sword.” repeated Priscilla. “No doubt she kept it hidden in her cupboard which is why Mrs. Betts was cut.”

  Cross paid her no attention. “I had to hie it out of there when the constable came.”

  Neville leaned forward to allow Cross to rid him of the ropes around his wrists. “So you approached the constable afterwards and offered to find out which among your fellow highwaymen had dared to fire on his beloved.”

  “Simple plans are always the best.” Stepping back, he said, “Ye be free. Get out of here.”

  “Not without the constable and Miss Verlyn.” He stood and chafed his wrists. “I told you from the beginning, Cross, that justice had to be served.”

  “And it will be. I told ye this is a matter for the Order. If ye want to intrude, yer lady will pay with her life.”

  “You make yourself q
uite clear, Cross.” He held out his hand to Priscilla. “Come along, sweetheart. It is time to leave.”

  “Leave? Now? We cannot abandon the constable and Miss Verlyn to him.”

  “They were quite willin’,” Cross said with a grin, “t’do that to ye.”

  “Pris, trust me,” Neville urged, bringing her to her feet.

  She blinked back tears. She did trust him, but she had seen he was willing to surrender his life for hers. She did not want that, nor did she want him to trade other lives for hers either. When he gave her a sharp shove, startling her, she wobbled on her feet.

  He scooped her up into his arms as he said, “Cross, give us time to get away from here so my wife need not endure the memory of what you plan for your captives.”

  “Aye.” He laughed with cruel anticipation. “A fancy lady has no stomach for fun. I give ye five minutes.”

  Neville did not reply as he carried her out the back of the simple cottage at a near run. He set her on the ground and mounted a waiting horse. Stretching down his arm, he told her to grasp it. When she did, he drew her up to sit behind him. She put her arms around him just as he slapped the reins and sent the horse racing along the road. At the first break in the hedgerow, he turned it to cross the open fields toward Rossington Hall.

  When he halted near a copse less than a half mile away, Priscilla asked, “Why are you stopping here?” She saw five horses hidden in the shade. “Whose horses are those?”

  “You will see.”

  And she did when she looked to her right. From beneath the trees came four bedraggled figures. Two had their hands lashed in front of them. She was shocked to see Miss Verlyn and the constable. But the greater surprise came when she looked at the two behind them, prodding them forward with the tips of gun barrels.

  “Agatha!” she cried. “Edgar!”

  Another man emerged from beneath the trees. It was Stuttman, their coachee. He looked exhausted and tattered, but otherwise all right.