Fool's Paradise

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  The boy, who said his name was Jocko, rushed out. The name seemed too big for such a scrawny lad, but he was good with horses. Instead of shying away from a stranger, the horse relaxed under Jocko’s attentions. His ears twitched to catch every word the boy spoke as Jocko led him into the stable.

  Once his eyes had adjusted to the darkness inside, Neville was astonished to see how long and narrow the stable was. Maybe the landlady had been honest when she said rooms would be at a premium. Several teamsters could get their wagons and horses under the roof in this stable.

  His eyes narrowed. What was at the rear of the stable? The shadow was large and bulky.

  “Is that a carriage?” Neville asked.

  Jocko put a handful of oats in a bucket and offered it to the horse. “Aye. Wish ’is lordship would take it away.” The boy began to towel down the wet horse. “Takes up too much room ’ere.” He looked toward Neville, and his eyes lit up. “Did ’e send ye t’take it back to ’im?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Ye talk like them from down south where ’is lordship lives.”

  Neville would have to watch his step with this boy who took note of every detail. Though it was a worthy skill for a lad living by his wits, the wrong word or action could give away information Neville wanted to keep to himself. So he accepted the excuse the lad had given him.

  Resting an elbow on a low wall, he nodded. “He asked me to check it and make sure it could make the journey back south.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it.” The boy ran to the back, gesturing for Neville to follow. “Stinks ’cause it was left out in the rain, and the leather got soaked. Seats will ’ave t’be taken out, but otherwise ’tis in fine shape.”

  “I need to check myself.”

  “Go ahead!” He waved a magnanimous hand like a grand king offering a boon to his lowest subject. “Ye won’t see anything different from what I told ye.”

  “I am sure I won’t, but you know how bosses are.”

  That was the right thing to say because the boy launched into a soliloquy about how shortsighted the tavern-keeper could be. While the boy listed his litany of woes, real and imagined, Neville opened the carriage’s door and peered inside. The stench of mildew was strong as he ran his hand along the cushions and behind them. He found two mismatched buttons, something that might once have been a piece of bread, and a tuppence. Commonplace items which told him nothing.

  “Anything in the boot?” he asked as he closed the door.

  “Nothin’.”

  “Mind if I look?”

  “’Tis yer time, mister.” The boy pulled out a piece of straw and twirled it in his fingers. Though he was trying to look nonchalant, he was watching every motion Neville made as closely as a constable eyed a felon.

  Neville discovered Jocko had been honest about the empty boot. He could see where items had been slid in and out, but nothing remained. Whether Miss Beamish’s bags had been taken by her or by thieves, there was no clue.

  “Told ye.” The boy leaned one shoulder against a post. “Rich folks are dicked in the nob, if ye ask me.” He pointed to his temple.

  “They can act crazy.” Here was the opening Neville had hoped for. As he squatted to look under the carriage, he asked, “Have you heard about that fool who is building a new village out in the fells?”

  Jocko snorted. “Everyone ’as. ’Tis the talk of the shire. Old m’lord comes up ’ere with more money than good sense. First, ’e pays men t’build ’im a big wall.” He stretched out his arms as far as they could go. “Big! Like some old castle, but instead of a castle, ’e says ’e is buildin’ a new town. The first in a whole new world.”

  “New world?”

  “Told ye ’e was crazy. This world is good enough for the rest of us. Dicked in the nob.”

  Neville looked under the carriage to keep the boy from guessing how puzzling his words were. St. John intended to create a new world? What in the blazes did that mean? One thing was for sure. To have a new world, the old one must be destroyed. The Prince Regent and his advisors were right to be worried about what St. John was doing in Lakeland.

  As soon as he could return Pris to Tarn’s Edge, he must reconnoiter St. John’s walled settlement. The builders would know its exact location. When he asked the boy if he knew any of the men hired by St. John, Jocko could give him only a single name and it was a man who lived several miles outside the village. First thing in the morning, Neville would pay the man a call. He hoped to get more information from him.

  Neville frowned as he stared at the underside of the carriage. The vehicle had been used hard because the suspension showed cracks along it. Where had it been before it came to the inn? The roads north from Chester, Miss Beamish’s most likely route, were rough, but not bad enough to cause such damage. The carriage underpinnings looked as if the carriage had been driven up the side of a mountain at top speed.

  He plucked pieces of a plant from high up in the suspension. Had the carriage been driven through a field? He could not imagine why anyone eloping to Gretna Green would do that. Not only would it damage the carriage but it could ruin the horses pulling it. Someone would have to be desperate to drive at such a speed off the road.

  Someone who was on the run.

  Could Beamish’s fears be legitimate? He swallowed his groan. He could not afford to be distracted from his task, but neither could he forget how desperate he would be to find Daphne or Leah if they went missing as Miss Beamish had.

  He had planned to ask about Miss Beamish and her companions anyhow, but now he would have to consider any answers he received as closely as he did any about St. John. From the moment his royal highness had asked for his help, he had known that the task would not be a simple one.

  Neville stood and brushed his hands on his damp breeches. The dirt would add to his disguise. Letting his sigh sift past his clenched teeth, he climbed up to the box. Scuff marks showed there had been a struggle, further confirming Beamish’s worst fears.

  He jumped down and walked around the carriage, examining the walls. He saw no signs of holes from shot fired at it. That was the first bit of good news.

  “Are ye takin’ it with ye?” asked Jocko. “’Tis been here nearly a month.”

  “A month? Do you know where it was before then?’

  “’Twas found out by the lake. Empty and without anyone ’round. But word came that the carriage belonged to a m’lord. Time for ’im t’come after it if ’e wants it.” He grimaced. “Takes up too much room.”

  “I will tell him that.” He tossed a silver half-crown to the boy who snatched it out of midair and made it vanish before Neville could change his mind. It was probably as much as the boy earned in a year. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Any time, mister.” His grin grew wide and a bit cocky.

  Ducking his head, Neville walked out in the rain. He was feeling more than a bit cocky himself. Tomorrow should be a very interesting day.

  SUPPER WAS DELICIOUS and plentiful at The Rose and Thistle. It was also rowdy. A half dozen drays, carrying goods, had stopped at the inn shortly after Neville came in from the stable.

  Priscilla sat at one end of the long table in the common room beyond the bar and listened to the loud, boisterous voices. She was the only woman other than Mrs. White, the inn’s landlady, and the men had tipped their caps politely to her as they arrived. After that, they ignored her as they discussed road conditions and markets. As he pretended to be one of them, they spoke with Neville openly. Again she was grateful for the skills he had garnered during his years in various playhouses.

  “I ’ear there is good money t’be made,” a younger man was saying as the men pushed back their empty trenchers and reached for mugs of ale, “takin’ goods up into the ’ighest passes west of ’ere, but ’tis tough on ’orses. Maybe I should get me some d
onkeys and see if they can make the journey.”

  “The ’igh passes to the west?” asked a grizzled man who was missing two fingers on his right hand. “Why go that way?”

  “’Aven’t ye ’eard? Some m’lord is building a new settlement up there,” Neville said. “A new place needs supplies t’build it.”

  The drayman looked around the table, then said, “If ye ’ave any sense in yer ’ead, take yer cart and go in any direction save toward St. John’s lands.”

  “Why?” asked Priscilla.

  The men stared at her in disbelief. Did they think her incapable of speech because she had remained silent while they groused about their jobs?

  Neville tensed but said nothing while waiting for an answer to her question. The youngest driver, the one who had brought up the subject, repeated her question.

  “No one goes there. Not ’less they be invited.” A balding man waved his mug to emphasize his words. He ignored the splatter of ale that flew farther with each motion. “If ye be asking, ye ’ave not been invited. Don’t go there, if ye want t’live a long life.”

  The draymen nodded in agreement.

  “Long life?” asked Neville as if musing over the words. “Are you saying folks have been killed going up there?”

  The man with the missing fingers aimed a fierce glance around the table, but a slight tremble in his voice betrayed his fright. “Ye are not the coroner, mate, so ye would be wise to stop askin’ questions.” He took another mug from Mrs. White.

  As she put more filled mugs on the table, Mrs. White said, “Listen t’Ole Pete. A word to the wise is sufficient, so they say.”

  “Do they?” Neville gave her the smile that had melted much harder hearts.

  Priscilla rose, drawing attention back to herself as Mrs. White abruptly simpered like a young miss. She had information to share with Neville from her conversation with the inn’s landlady. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I think I shall retire.”

  The men came to their feet and bid her a good evening. Neville tapped the table to let her know he planned to remain a little longer. He must have seen or heard something he wished to investigate further. She had seen the excitement glowing in his eyes when he returned from the stable, and she was curious about what he had discovered.

  As she walked to the front door so she could climb the stairs in the entry, she felt someone staring at her. She took the time she needed to open the door to sneak a glance back. One man, the young driver who had brought up the subject of Sir Thomas, watched her with an unsettled expression. He clearly was worried about what was happening in the fells. She suspected as well that he would be the target of Neville’s questioning.

  The stairs were as twisting as in a medieval tower, and more than one of the treads rocked beneath Priscilla’s feet. She was relieved to reach the upper floor. The corridor’s ceiling was low, and she realized the inn must be even more ancient than she had guessed. She could walk without bending, but Neville would have to duck his head. Their room was the second one on the right, the landlady had told her, and the door would be open.

  The room’s ceiling was sharply slanted. If Neville went to the single window, it would have to be on his hands and knees. One pane was coated with dusty spider webs that looked as old as the inn itself. However, the rope bed was freshly made, and a fire was lit on the hearth. It was, she decided, in no worse condition than Tarn’s Edge, and it was far better than most of the roadside inns where they had stopped during their journey from Stonehall-on-Sea.

  The door protested loudly when she closed it. She pulled the chair closer to the fire. As the minutes ticked by and Neville did not come upstairs, she pulled out the bag of knitting she had brought on the trip. She had recently rediscovered the craft. Neville had teased her about becoming interested in such housewifely tasks once she realized she was pregnant. She laughed with him, but, in truth, the click-click of the needles was soothing.

  For more than an hour, Priscilla sat by the fireplace and worked on her knitting; then the door opened again with another squeak. Neville came in and closed the door behind him.

  Walking toward her, he sat on one corner of the bed. His head brushed the low rafter. “Are you making something for our baby?”

  “That would announce to the world that we are having a baby. No, I am making a shawl for Aunt Cordelia. A thank you gift for helping Daphne with the wedding plans.”

  “I am sorry to miss the first meeting between your aunt and Witherspoon’s mother.”

  “I’m not!” Priscilla put her knitting on her lap. She was grateful to Aunt Cordelia for contacting Lady Witherspoon to work out the few undecided matters. “Though if Daphne and Burke are wise, they will remain silent.”

  He laughed. “Do you honestly believe they will be able to get a word in edgewise? Your aunt is determined to control every situation, and Lady Witherspoon is her match. If you recall, during our call in London, the marchioness commanded most of the conversation.”

  “Enough about that. Tell me what you have discovered, and then I shall share what I have learned.”

  Priscilla listened, astonished, as Neville described the carriage in the stable. “Are you sure it is Lord Beamish’s?”

  “Who else has had a carriage abandoned here?”

  “I don’t know, but we cannot assume anything.”

  He shook his head with a grimace. “That is true, Pris. And to be honest, I would be glad to hear it belonged to some other lord in the south of England. Trying to get information on Miss Beamish takes away time from my real mission.”

  “Did you find out anything interesting from the men downstairs?”

  “Interesting, yes. Helpful, no. Duncan was right about St. John being a favorite topic. They enjoy speculating about what St. John is doing behind his wall, but no one seems to know anything. What about Mrs. White? Did she tell you anything that will help?”

  “She gave me the names of some men who have been to the new community.” She pulled a slip of paper out of her knitting bag and handed it to him. “I wrote them down.”

  He scanned the list and smiled. “Excellent, Pris. I got only a single name from Jocko, and that man lives north of here.”

  “I asked Mrs. White for the names of men right here in the village.”

  “Smart of you, Pris. May I?”

  She motioned for him to keep the page. “While you call on the men on that list, I shall visit some of the shops to see what else I can learn.”

  “An excellent plan.” He pushed himself to his feet, hit his head on the ceiling, and cursed. “Why don’t we get some sleep, Pris? I am chilled from the ride in the rain, and I would like to get warmed up.”

  “Another good idea.” She set aside her knitting and stood on tiptoe as she locked her hands behind his nape.

  He nuzzled her neck, sending waves of heated anticipation through her. “You are the antithesis of your aunt, you know.”

  “How so?”

  “She can be a gabster. You, on the other hand . . .” His own fingers slid along her side to settle on the curve of her hip. “Say much with only a few words.” Sweeping her up into his arms, he chuckled from deep in his throat. “I need to do this while I can. Soon you will be as big as those drays out there.”

  “You give me the kindest compliments.”

  He answered her with his lips on hers, and then there was no need for talking.

  SOMETHING SQUAWKED. A short sound but enough to disrupt Priscilla’s sleep. She opened her eyes and savored the warmth of Neville’s shoulder under her cheek.

  The noise came again.

  Squeeeeak!

  The door!

  Priscilla sat up, but Neville had already sprung from the bed and toward the door. Before she could shout for him to be careful and to wait for her, he and the person who tried to sneak in h
ad run out of the room. She groped for her dressing gown. By the time she had pulled it around her and buttoned it in place, the doorway was empty.

  She started to call out Neville’s name, then reconsidered. Caution was imperative.

  But so was making sure Neville was not hurt by the intruder.

  Where had they gone?

  She knocked on other doors along the corridor. When she got no answer, she opened each one and looked inside. The faint light coming through the windows showed the rooms were empty.

  She held her breath as she knocked on the final door. Again, she got no answer. Again, she opened the door.

  The room was black. Either it had no window or the glass was covered.

  “Is anyone here?” she whispered, then raising her voice, repeated the question.

  A loud curse came from the hallway. She rushed out and saw a form silhouetted against a doorway that must lead to another stairwell. The form vanished.

  She rushed forward and almost stumbled down the uneven steps. She slowed, making sure each step was solid beneath her foot before she took the next one. A door at the bottom led out into what looked like a stable yard because she saw horses milling about.

  Two men were in the yard. Neville! She recognized his height.

  Suddenly Neville tumbled off his feet, falling face first to the ground. Had he been shot?

  Before she could run to him, her arm was grabbed. Something struck her head, and night rose up to consume her.

  Chapter Six

  NEVILLE WOKE WITH a headache bad enough for him to wonder if he had been too much in his cups. The last time his head had throbbed like this, he had spent the whole night at the card table and had given several bottles of cheap gin black eyes. It had been in the wake of getting the news that his good friend, Lazarus Flanders, had died without Neville knowing he was ill. He had no time to thank Lazarus for helping him turn his life around. He had waited a year before he called on Lazarus’s widow to offer his condolences. He could not bear to see such grief in Pris’s eyes.