Fool's Paradise: A Lady Priscilla Flanders Mystery

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  After everything else he had seen, it was no surprise to see a throne with an eagle banner hanging over it at the end of the long room. He almost would have been disappointed if there had been no sign of Imperial Rome. Beneath the banner was another flag with a bull in its center. It might be an emblem belonging to one of the legions that guarded the empire’s borders. He wondered how accurate St. John had insisted his utopia be.

  On the throne sat Sir Thomas Hodge St. John, dressed in the white toga of a Roman leader with a cloak of imperial purple draped around his shoulders. Would the man whose black hair was laced with silver recognize Neville, whom he had met on a couple of occasions? The last time, Neville had not spoken to him directly, so it was possible St. John would not remember him.

  “A newcomer, Imperator,” a voice intoned from behind the throne. Neville could not see who stood there, so the person might be behind the drapery.

  St. John squinted at Neville and motioned him forward. “I am told your name is Williams.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Leonard Williams?”

  He hoped this was not some test or trap. He shifted his eyes toward Pris. She gave the slightest nod, and he hurried to say, “Yes, sir.”

  “You look familiar, Williams.”

  He had to choose his lies with care. Anything he said could trigger a memory in the older man’s head. “I once served as a footman and guest valet for gentlemen who came to Lord Stoningham’s country seat near Newmarket to enjoy the races. Perhaps you saw me then.”

  “Possible, though I always have traveled with my own valet.” Raising his voice, he spoke to the whole gathering. “But that is part of the old world. Now we have this new world. You will be part of that, Williams, and you should be grateful such an honor has been granted to you.”

  “Yes, sir.” He had no idea what else to say. If he spoke the wrong word, would these pseudo-Romans toss him to the lions for their enjoyment?

  He realized St. John had not been waiting for an answer. St. John pushed himself to his feet and called out, “Here in Novum Arce, we have cut ourselves off from war, and we seek to live in peace. In pace. We have established a place to raise our children and their children and their children without interference from outsiders.” His pale eyes focused on Neville again. “Pax Romana. Do you know what it is?”

  “Would you explain, sir?” he asked because he needed to know how St. John defined the term that translated as “the peace of Rome.” For a man who preached peace, St. John had plenty of men training to be soldiers.

  Neville heard intakes of breaths behind him and then a sigh in unison. No doubt, St. John’s followers had heard him prattle about his ideals for Novum Arce too many times before. He listened with half an ear as he scanned the great hall. A single door opened at the back, visible only because someone had pulled the draperies aside so the rain did not strike them. He did not need an escape route . . . yet. Everything he saw created more questions in his mind. He needed more answers before he left Novum Arce. But it was always best to be prepared, though he would never leave without Pris.

  “Pax Romana was the greatest moment in Roman history,” intoned St. John. “A time when the empire was united in peace. Imagine that, Williams! The whole of the known world under one government. Our beloved England, then known as Britannia, was part of the empire. That splendid time lasted, unfortunately, little more than two hundred years, but almost ten generations lived in peace and prosperity before the barbarians tore it apart. It was the most perfect time in the whole history of mankind.”

  Neville clasped his hands behind his back when St. John paused. He bit back facts that would contradict St. John’s delusions. Pax Romana had not ended because of invaders but because of the ineptitude of its emperors who had quarreled among themselves, often using assassination as a tool to get rid of rivals. In the time when the Caesars had mollified their subjects with bread and circuses, Rome grew bloated and weak.

  However, to say those words in Novum Arce would likely be considered the gravest heresy. In St. John’s fantasy, which he was explaining in tiresome detail, Pax Romana had been destroyed by those who were jealous of what Rome had created. Until Neville was more certain of what St. John truly planned, it would be wise to play along as Pris was.

  “The American leaders chose the words well for the preamble to their Constitution.” He put his hand over his heart as if posing for a statue. “‘We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.’ A fine goal.” His gaze swept the room. “One that could describe us at Novum Arce.”

  Applause erupted as if St. John had spouted a cure for every disease known to man. Neville resisted rolling his eyes as Daphne did often. Silly St. John had made the settlement a success . . . at least thus far. Underestimating him and his followers could be foolish, and being a fool was one thing Neville Hathaway was determined never to be.

  He suspected being one at Novum Arce was a quick way to find himself dead.

  PRISCILLA LET THE other women walk ahead of her across the wet grass. Clouds still hung low over the fells, but the showers had stopped. She had no doubt they would start again soon. The women’s light voices faded beneath the shouts from the training ground where the men were again practicing with swords and shields.

  Her own heart sang. When she had seen Neville walk into the principia, she had to fight not to sob with happiness. She had feared he was dead, and asking questions about him had been risky.

  She picked up an empty basket and settled it on her hip. She grabbed a length of cloth off one of the drying lines and draped it over the basket so it looked as if she carried a load of laundry. Pulling her stola over her head, she hoped nobody would take note of her. Already she had noticed how the many men in the compound ogled the women openly.

  Another reason she was glad Neville was in Novum Arce.

  Walking in the general direction of the laundry set near the stream flowing from beyond the walls, Priscilla looked for Neville. He had signaled that they should meet outside.

  A motion caught her eye, and her heart leaped in a crazy dance. No, it was only one of the clerks who rushed around Novum Arce as if an angry bull gave chase. She kept strolling. It was hard to smile when someone greeted her, but she must pretend to have nothing more on her mind than getting the laundry done.

  There! Was it . . . ? Yes!

  Neville stood in the shadow cast by the back wall of the principia. Her feet begged her to run into his arms, but she kept her pace steady. She continued to check to make sure nobody was watching.

  He pulled the basket from her hands and tossed it to the ground before he tugged her through the back door and into the deepest shadows near the banner draped behind the Imperator’s throne. When his mouth claimed hers, she slipped into his arms. She had feared she would never feel his strong, firm body against her again.

  His lips moved across her face, each kiss branding her with the heat of his eager passion. She murmured over and over that she loved him, knowing only now how deeply she had feared that she would never see him again. As tears ran down her face, he drew back to wipe them away as gently as if each one were a precious gem.

  “I thought I had lost you,” Neville said when her weeping slowed to unsteady hiccups. “Seeing you alive was the answer to a prayer my heart had been shouting from the moment I woke here.”

  She ran her fingers along his arm, loath to break the connection between them. “Should we look for some other place to talk?” She glanced along the length of the shadowed hall. The torches had been doused, and the light coming in from the door on the far wall did not reach across the floor.

&nb
sp; “I have no idea where else we could go, and from here we have a good view if anyone comes in.” He glanced at his dirty and torn clothes. “I stand out like a beggar at a ball.”

  “I can get you some other clothing.”

  “Resorting to thievery already? I can see your aunt is not wrong. I have been a very bad influence on you.”

  Surprised when a laugh tickled her throat, she said, “Yes, you have been a bad influence, but not in this case. Each of us in Novum Arce is assigned a workplace, and mine is in the laundry. I will get you clothes and clean yours as best I can.”

  “Good. I will need them when we leave.”

  She had much to tell him, but before she spoke of Novum Arce and the surprises she had discovered in the settlement, she had to ask, “How are you doing?”

  “Better than I was a couple of hours ago.” His fingers grazed the back of his skull, and he grimaced. “Whoever struck me did so with eager vengeance.” His eyes narrowed. “What of you? How are you and . . . ?”

  “We are fine. I was knocked out, too, but I have been awake since dawn.” She glanced around then smiled. “As a woman, I did not warrant an audience with our leader.”

  “I should be honored?”

  “I am not sure,” she replied, “whether the whole of that welcome was for your benefit or the community’s. No one speaks against Sir Thomas. In fact, they treat him as if he were Jupiter himself, but I could see those in the principia wished they were elsewhere while he rambled on and on about Pax Romana.”

  “Now he has a ready audience.”

  Priscilla looked down the length of the hall again to make certain no one else had entered. “Once I woke, I kept asking about you, but I remembered you said you had met St. John, so I chose a different name for you.” She frowned. “He did not seem to recognize you.”

  “Lucky for both of us.” He explained how excited St. John usually was when he was at the board of green cloth or by the final turn of the racetrack. “I think my image would have to have been on the cards he held for him to have noticed me.” He brushed a vagrant strand of hair behind her ear, and she shivered. “I assume because you gave them a fake name for me, you have one for yourself.”

  “I am Mrs. Kenton.”

  “But that makes no sense if they think I am Mr. Williams.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “They don’t realize we arrived together at The Rose and Thistle Inn, and the landlady must not play any part in their activities. I was not noticed until I was seen coming out of another room while I searched for you. When I discovered they thought we were two visitors who happened to be at the inn at the same time, I decided to let them continue with their delusion.” Her expression became serious again. “They seem to be good at accepting delusions.”

  Neville considered her choice. It had been a good one. He intended to find out more about Novum Arce. If caught where he should not be, any punishment would be his alone. Not having to worry about Pris paying for his crimes would give him greater freedom to follow any clues he uncovered.

  He reminded himself why they had come to Lakeland. “I saw soldiers in the village and up on the hills.”

  “I know. They want to make sure that no one gets a close look at this place, except for those of us who are stuck here.”

  “Is that the only reason St. John has built himself an army?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I have been careful in what I have asked, because I didn’t want to tip my hand. It is best that they think of me only as Mrs. Keaton who works in the laundry.”

  “Do you have a first name, Mrs. Kenton?” he asked, tensing when a shadow crossed the door at the other end of the hall. It vanished. The person must have walked past without stopping.

  “Of course, I gave them a first name,” Pris replied.

  “What is it?”

  Color flashed up her face. “Cordelia.”

  He shook his head in disgust. “Of all the names in the world—”

  “It was the first one that came to me. I was thinking how glad I am the children are safe with Aunt Cordelia.”

  “Not all of them.” He glanced down at her belly, which still was flat beneath her loose clothing. “Pris—”

  “Stop,” she whispered. “Watch what you say.”

  Neville berated himself. She was right to scold him. The throbbing in his skull was no excuse. He started to apologize but halted when someone entered the hall. Without a word, he took Pris’s hand and drew her out of the principia. He frowned when he saw everyone along the walkway in front of them stop. Pris tensed beside him and he realized she thought they had been caught.

  Or had she stiffened when she saw the fake Roman soldiers marching past in perfect unison, holding their shields and spears? Their short swords bounced with each step, and the feathers in their helmets danced in the breeze. Were those their only weapons, or did they have more modern ones stashed away, ready to be used upon St. John’s command?

  “Come on,” Neville murmured, leading her away from the crowd cheering as the faux legionaries paraded in front of them.

  Pris went with him without question, but he knew she had as many as he did.

  As soon as they were concealed behind what appeared to be a well house, he said, “I see what is in front of my eyes, but I cannot believe it.”

  “It is exactly what Sir Thomas told you. He is trying to resurrect Roman Britain and the Pax Romana. I have tried to find out why he chose this particular time, but either the people don’t know or they don’t care because they feel safe here.”

  “In a madman’s hallucination?”

  “Despite Sir Thomas’s state of mind, you can see that he has been working on the settlement for quite a while.” She pointed along the straight street where the soldiers were now marching toward the small, columned building. “That is a temple to the cult of Mithras. It is on top of a cave because the worship must be below ground. The people believe the cave is the reason Novum Arce is here.”

  “Or they pretend to believe it.”

  “It does not matter. They are willing to play along with the fantasy that Mithras is the god of light and wisdom, and it was with his guidance that Sir Thomas came here to build his city. I have been told no women are allowed in the temple or the cave below it because it is the domain of warriors.”

  “We need to get the hell out of here. Tonight—”

  “No, we cannot leave.”

  “Don’t worry about the guards at the gate. We have slipped past others.”

  She shook her head. “We cannot leave because we have to figure out how she fits in here.”

  “She who?”

  Pris pointed toward another group of villagers who stepped hastily aside as a tall brunette glided along the walkway, heading toward the temple. Thick bands of gold encircled her upper arms, and pearls were woven through her lush curls. More jewels glittered on her fingers. Her eyes were lined with kohl, making her look more like an ancient Egyptian than a Roman, and her lips were painted scarlet. The white gown accented her voluptuous curves, and her draped cloak, which was a vivid purple, offered a few glimpses of the pale skin of her shoulders and swanlike neck.

  His eyes widened as he stared at the woman’s long neck. “Is that who I think it is?”

  She nodded. “Yes. That is the baron’s daughter, though from what I have been told, she is calling herself Bellona now.”

  “The Roman goddess of war?”

  “I am constantly amazed at the breadth of your knowledge.”

  “Knowing a little about a lot makes a man a good dinner companion, a vital skill among the Beau Monde.” He looked past her. “I wonder why she chose that name.”

  “Though we are surrounded by people who are more than a bit insane, we are exactly where we should be. Not only can we learn about Sir Thom
as’s plans, but we can rescue Miss Beamish.”

  “Do you know if she is ready to leave or has any idea where her servants are?”

  “I have not had a chance to talk to her. The other women who are assigned to the laundry are in awe of her and call her magistra. I think it is a term of respect.”

  Neville did not reply as he watched Beamish’s daughter. He was not going to call her by the absurd name she had adopted. Had it been chance that they had been brought to the same place where she was? Or had something other than fortune played a hand in arranging for him and Pris to end up in Novum Arce?

  If it were the latter, the person who had ordered their abduction must believe their lie that the only reason they had come north was to search for Miss Beamish. He had not guessed that the excuse would make them prisoners behind a great wall. Someone wanted to keep them from reporting to Beamish, but who? And why?

  And did that person suspect the real reason they had come to Lakeland? If so, their situation could be even more perilous than he had guessed.

  Chapter Eight

  PRISCILLA PRESSED her hands to the small of her back then looked around. If Neville chanced to see her showing any hint of pain, he would insist they leave immediately. She had no doubts Neville could find a way to sneak them out of Novum Arce, but she did not feel right about leaving Lord Beamish’s daughter behind. Reporting her location to her father could mean jeopardizing Neville’s work because Lord Beamish would likely storm into the settlement before the government’s forces could arrive. If Sir Thomas truly intended to use his army to attack England, any intrusion now could mean him taking his men and his plans underground where they could not be found until they were ready to start a war.

  And what about Miss Beamish’s servants? Where were they? If they were part of Sir Thomas’s plans, that must be known, too, so Neville could report that to whoever sent him north.