Fool's Paradise: A Lady Priscilla Flanders Mystery

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “What does matter to you, Lord Beamish?” Priscilla asked in the matter-of-fact tone that warned she found Beamish bothersome but would not request him to leave as she clearly wished.

  “My daughter. My dearest Bella.” He moaned and covered his face with his hands. Shudders rippled along him. The man was distraught.

  Or was he?

  Neville had seen plenty of overacting players, both on the boards and off. Beamish’s entrance had struck him as more than a little melodramatic.

  Pris glanced at Neville before asking, “Why do you feel your daughter is in danger?”

  Only a groan came from the baron.

  Neville held out his hand to Duncan. His friend had the decency to shoot Pris an apologetic grin before pulling out his flask. Taking it, Neville opened the top and poured a generous serving into an empty teacup. He offered it to the moaning man.

  “Beamish, this may help,” he said.

  “Nothing can help.”

  “If that is so, why did you come to throw yourself on Lady Priscilla’s mercy?”

  “Neville,” chided Pris under her breath.

  Maybe Beamish heard her, or maybe he heard only Neville. Either way, he raised his head and seized the cup, splattering whisky on the saucer. Duncan mumbled something about the waste of fine whisky, but Neville ignored him.

  Beamish wiped his mouth, ungraciously, with the back of his hand. “Lady Priscilla, I apologize for my outrageous behavior, but you are my final hope. No one else will heed me.” His mouth tightened, and Neville guessed the baron was deciding how to repay those who, in his estimation, had failed him in his time of need.

  “Tell us what brought you to our door,” Pris said in a tone Neville had come to think of as her “parson’s wife” voice. It was calm and kind and aimed at convincing people to set aside their emotions long enough to explain what was wrong. It also worked to hide her own opinions of the person. She used it only when she disliked someone.

  “My daughter is in trouble,” Beamish said, taking another hasty gulp of the whisky.

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “It began with that cur Sherman.”

  “Which one?” Neville asked, sitting beside Pris again.

  Beamish scowled. “The viscount’s heir, Clarence Sherman. He started sniffing around my daughter’s skirts last Season, but I kept a close eye on Bella. I have high hopes for her, and I don’t wish to have her wed a penniless gamester.”

  “That is wise,” Neville said as he translated the baron’s words in his head. Beamish intended to wed his daughter to a fortune.

  “It certainly was, but Bella failed to see my wisdom. She spent time with him whenever we chanced to be at the same event. She said she enjoyed talking about northwest England with him.”

  “Northwest?” It had to be a coincidence. The Prince Regent might be witless around women, but he usually had a clear head when judging men. Everyone knew that trusting Beamish was want-witted because Beamish would quickly trade information for money or power or better yet, both.

  “I was astonished, too.” He shook his head. “Why would a young woman care about that desolate place? She gets her wayward ways from her mother, which is no surprise, considering how she was raised for the first ten years of her life in the wilds of Scotland. There, they only think of the past instead of the future.”

  “The past?”

  “Those Highlanders still complain about the loss they suffered at Culloden and act as if the plaid is still outlawed. My daughter needed to be retaught the truth after I insisted she come to live with me. I had hoped time in Town would teach her the importance of an established future, but she chose poorly.”

  “If her heart led her elsewhere,” Pris said, “it is sometimes impossible for a young woman not to heed it.”

  “A woman of any age.” Beamish harrumped. Draining his cup, he set it on the tray, but took time to aim a glare at Neville. “That is why it is vital for a father to make sure his daughter does not do anything that might ruin her.”

  Pris arched her brows at Neville. When Duncan tried to stifle his laugh, Beamish scowled and asked why Duncan was part of the conversation. When Pris reminded him that Duncan was married to her aunt, Beamish acquiesced, albeit reluctantly.

  “Do you think they eloped?” Pris asked with the candor that endeared her to Neville.

  “It is possible.” Clearing his throat, Beamish added, “But their carriage has been found in the fells of Lakeland. At an inn. The Rose and Thistle Inn near Windermere. It had been abandoned.”

  Neville stood and refilled the baron’s glass. “I know something of the area.” He did not add that, when the title of baron had been granted to him by the Prince Regent in exchange for Neville’s fixing of an embarrassing matter that could not be spoken of in polite company, he also had been given a generous portion of land not far from that northern lake. He suspected that was why his royal highness had contacted him to investigate the odd activities going on there.

  “A vast wilderness and lawless place,” muttered Beamish.

  “Quite to the contrary. It is peaceful for the most part.”

  “So you say, but my daughter and her companions have vanished.”

  “Someone could have met them there with another vehicle,” Pris said with her cool logic.

  Her suggestion seemed to deflate Beamish whose face became a sickly shade of gray that no actor would be able to achieve without cosmetics. Was the man truly so devastated by his daughter’s elopement? Maybe Beamish’s finances were in worse shape than anyone had guessed.

  “I wish that were so,” Beamish whispered. “But I have proof Bella has been abducted.”

  “Proof?” asked Duncan at the same time Neville did.

  “This was found.” Beamish pulled a crumpled piece of paper from under his coat and held it out.

  When Pris took it and smoothed it on her lap, Neville shifted so he could read the few words written on it in block letters.

  To whomever finds this message,

  Please let my father, Maurice, Lord Beamish, know as of the writing of this note, I am alive. We have been halted on the road, and I have no idea what may happen next. But I have been told they intend me no harm. As for the others, I have not seen them in more than an hour.

  I am told my father will be notified of what he must do in order for my release to be arranged.

  It was signed with a scrawl that might have been Miss Beamish’s signature. Raising his gaze to Beamish, Neville asked, “This is her handwriting?”

  “Yes. Bella never had much interest in penmanship. Nor in other subjects that a young miss should study. Rather she preferred when her classes were about history. That girl can spout off more facts about English history than a Cambridge don.”

  “What did her abductors demand when they contacted you?”

  “That is just it, Hathaway. Nobody has tried to get in touch with me. More than a fortnight has passed since this note was delivered. And Bella ran away to be with that cur more than a month before that.”

  “She has been missing six weeks?” gasped Pris. “Why haven’t you hired a Bow Street Runner?”

  “I tried. None of them is willing to travel from London. That is why I was hoping you might help me, my lady. I know you have handled other—shall we say, other unsavory situations?”

  Pris held the note out to Beamish as she shook her head. “I am sorry, Lord Beamish. I am not the right person to help you, even if I had the time which I do not with planning my daughter’s wedding.”

  “Your daughter’s wedding is more important than my daughter’s life? How dare you suggest that, Lady Priscilla!” Beamish jumped to his feet, his hands curling into fists as he aimed a furious stare at Pris. He started to raise his fist in her direction.

 
Neville stood without saying a word and stepped between Pris and the overwrought fool. Duncan got up, too, but did not move farther. When Beamish saw them, he lowered his fist. He might be willing to intimidate a woman, but he would not stand against one man, let alone two, who could knock him senseless with a single blow.

  “I am sorry,” Pris said as if they still all sat and sipped tea. Her taut expression warned that Beamish had crossed a line with his question and his actions. Neville suspected only her own excellent manners kept her from ordering Beamish from the house. She might sympathize with the man who was frantic to find his daughter, but she would not knuckle under to a bully. “It is not a matter of which is more important. I simply would not know where to begin, my lord. Perhaps Bow Street could suggest someone closer to Lakeland who might assist you.”

  “I told you! I have asked everyone I know. Nobody wants to go that distance from London.” His eyes narrowed as he refocused on Neville. “You have dirty acres up there, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” He did not want to prolong the conversation. Not only did he know that Beamish was likely to do something else that would make Neville forget his manners, but he wanted to talk to Pris about what had been discussed in London. Her insight was always valuable. So he only added, “Lady Priscilla has said she cannot help you at this time. Perhaps you should take this opportunity to find someone who will.”

  “Who?” Beamish turned from her to him and on to Duncan like a desperate child demanding someone give him his way. “I do not know anyone up there except that Sir Thomas Hodge St. John. I cannot count on him for help because, from what I hear, he is involved in another of his crazy schemes.”

  Neville exerted all his self-will to hold back his gasp of astonishment. He had not thought Beamish would mention that name. What did Beamish know of St. John’s activities in Lakeland? “As you said,” he drawled, “you know I have part of my estate there at Tarn’s Edge, so you know someone other than St. John.”

  Beamish scowled. “Are you saying that you will find my daughter?” He laughed tersely. “Your family’s reputation precedes you, Hathaway. None of them has ever done anything unless there is some reward in it for them.”

  “I never said I would find your daughter, but I can ask some questions about her whereabouts when I visit there next week.” He saw Pris’s surprise, which she quickly masked. He knew he could trust her not to reveal that, until moments ago, he had had no plans to go north until after Daphne’s wedding. “I am a father of daughters now, Beamish, and not knowing if they were alive or dead would drive me quite insane as well.”

  Duncan made some sound that might have been a squelched laugh, but Beamish either did not catch the barely veiled insult or chose to ignore it.

  “I would appreciate that.” He took Neville’s hand and pumped it vigorously. Releasing it, he reached under his coat and drew out a miniature portrait. He handed it to Neville. “This is an excellent likeness of my darling Bella.”

  Neville glanced at it and saw the painting had been done by a barely competent artist. The dark-haired woman was distinct only because her long neck gave her an arrogant pose. Or perhaps, the haughtiness might be simply a trait she had inherited from her father.

  “It will help you find her,” Beamish added.

  “Whoa there.” Neville gave Pris the portrait. “I did not say I would find her. I said that I would ask about her.”

  “One and the same. You might want to start with St. John.”

  “Why?” Any information he could garner on the eccentric baronet might be the very clue he needed to discover the truth, even before he took the long drive north.

  “He always spoiled Bella when she was a child. He may have assisted her in her foolish plan to elope.” Beamish picked up his cup, drained the last of the whisky from it, and walked toward the door with a jaunty step. Turning, he added, “I will expect a report from you by the end of next week. You can send it to me in Town, where I have vital business.” Strong emotions glittered in his eyes. “Very vital.”

  Neville did not caution the baron not to burn his bridges in front of him. A fool could see that no matter how sweet Beamish believed the vengeance would be against those who had turned from his pleas, he needed to keep open every possible avenue to find his daughter, until she was safe.

  He left without another word.

  “Do you want to explain that about-face?” asked Pris in a tone that held an undercurrent of exasperation.

  “As I told Beamish, now that I am the father of two daughters, I—”

  “Balderdash.” She looked past him to Duncan. “Don’t you agree, Duncan?”

  “I agree,” his so-called friend said with a grin. “Balderdash of the first order.”

  “Listen to you!” Neville frowned at them. “You know me. You know I would do anything for a friend.”

  “True, but Beamish is not,” Pris said quietly, “your friend. Not by any definition of the word. He is a despicable miser who cares only for the weight of his pockets. But suddenly you are acting as if you cannot wait to help him. What is going on, Neville?”

  “You need to trust me, Pris. Just as you did when I had to go up to London.”

  Her eyes widened, and again he knew she had understood what he could not say with Duncan listening. His tie-mate would never spill the truth, but Neville had been sworn to secrecy by England’s next king. Only now did he wonder how many others might be privy to what was happening in Lakeland. Others that even the Prince Regent was unaware of.

  But Neville needed to find out . . . fast.

  Chapter Three

  PRISCILLA SET THE last of the used dishes on the tea tray, replaying the bizarre conversation through her mind. No matter how often she went over it, she could not guess why Neville had changed his mind about helping Lord Beamish. She did believe he understood a father’s anguish at having a child missing, but Neville could have found someone else to assist Lord Beamish. She doubted there was a corner of England or beyond where he did not have a crony he had worked with in the past.

  So what was he thinking? She had assumed he would tell her in the wake of Lord Beamish’s departure, but he had agreed to go with Duncan to see his friend’s newest team of carriage horses. They had left ten minutes ago, and she had no intention of waiting in the parlor any longer. Her house was filled to overflowing with guests, and she must make sure that each of them had a comfortable bed for the night.

  She looked up as Neville came back into the sitting room.

  Alone.

  When he closed the door behind him, she sat again. She waited for him to do the same, but he began to pace back and forth across the room. She had learned this was his way of sorting through information. The questions roiling through her refused to wait for him to reach a conclusion.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “I was asked by an important friend to discover what St. John is doing at the village he apparently is building in Lakeland.”

  “Why?”

  “St. John is insane.”

  “That is a strong accusation, Neville.”

  He did not slow his pacing. “And a true one. I have met him at least two or three times, though unlike Beamish, who once counted him as a friend, I never have had a conversation with him. He is like a hummingbird hawk-moth, flitting here and there and never settling. He believes in the most peculiar things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Breeding a herd of sheep with wool that peels off with a single tug.”

  She laughed. “I assume he didn’t succeed.”

  “No, nor did he find a way to build a bridge from Dover to Calais.”

  “How convenient that would be for Napoleon to march his troops across!”

  “I doubt he considered that.” He chuckled then grew serious again. “St. John dreams the impossible without hav
ing any idea of how to make it possible. If ideas were gold, he would be the richest man on earth. As it is, he should be a scholar stashed away in Oxford where he would bother no one but his students with his half-baked ideas. Instead, he holds an ancient title and makes ducks and drakes of his money by tossing it away trying to change the world.”

  “Or a small piece of it.”

  Again he nodded, this time rubbing his chin with his thumb and fingers. His gaze turned inward as he said, “You have, as always, cut to the quick of the matter, Pris. He may have finally realized he cannot change the whole world, so he has decided to make a small portion of it into his image of perfection.”

  “But why is your friend concerned about an eccentric man? Or specifically this eccentric one because Sir Thomas is not the only quiz in England.”

  He paused and smiled. “Listen to you, Pris. Throwing around London slang with such ease.”

  “Quiz does mean eccentric, right?”

  “Quite right.”

  “Then please answer my question. Why is your friend curious about Sir Thomas?”

  Sitting next to her, he folded her hands in his. He leaned his forehead against hers so he could speak without his voice reaching the door and the hallway beyond it. He outlined his contact’s anxiety about the bizarre project St. John had created. She gasped when he mentioned how St. John seemed to be gathering an army, which he was training out of view of the rest of the world. Why would anyone build a towering wall if they did not want to keep everyone from discovering what they were doing?

  “We cannot be sure if his army will support England or turn against it.” Neville’s voice grew grimmer with every word. “Without knowing the army’s size and its capabilities, it is impossible to guess at what his intentions might be. That is why I was asked to investigate. Dismissing the old widgeon as harmless might be a huge mistake for a country at war with both France and the Americans.”