Other ImaJinn Titles by J. A. Ferguson
(Regency Romance)
My Lord Viking
Gentleman’s Master
Marry Me, Millie
Under Her Spell
Writing as J. A Ferguson
Call Back Yesterday
Dreamsinger
Dreamshaper
DreamMaster
Dream Traveler
Luck of the Irish
Daughter of the Fox
Timeless Shadows
The Wrong Christmas Carol
Sworn Upon Fire
Writing as Jocelyn Kelley
(Regency Romance)
Sea Wraith
Gentleman’s Master
by
Jo Ann Ferguson
ImaJinn Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
ImaJinn Books
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Ebook ISBN: 978-1-933417-11-0
Print ISBN: 978-1-933417-10-3
ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 by Jo Ann Ferguson
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.
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*10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
Cover design: Deborah Smith
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
Man (manipulated) © Curaphotography | Dreamstime.com
Couple (manipulated) © RomanceNovelCovers.com
Background (manipulated) © Miramisska | Dreamstime.com
:Emgv:01:
Dedication
For Tracey Lyons,
Madame Prez extraordinaire and,
more important, a good friend
Chapter One
“STAND AND deliver!” came the shout in the wake of the pistol shot.
Lady Priscilla Hathaway choked on the scream that wanted to escape from her throat. The dim light in the carriage glinted off the burnished barrel of another pistol pointed directly at her. Unlike the first shot, this one would not be fired over the carriage in a warning.
But she silenced the terror roiling in her. A single sound might be the very one that made the highwayman fire.
Her fingers inched across the smooth surface of the carriage’s seat to entwine with Neville’s. Neville, her husband of barely more than a day. Neville, her best friend who had shared her grief when her first husband died and left her alone to raise their three children. Neville, who taught her rumor and reality did sometimes speak the truth because she had learned that not all the stories about his exploits before he became Sir Neville Hathaway were untrue . . . and she found she did not care anyway.
His broader fingers closed over hers, gently squeezing. She was glad that he had had many dealings with the criminal world, because his knowledge might be the only tool to save them from death.
“Yer fripperies,” ordered the man holding the pistol. His face was shadowed by the night and the wide-brimmed hat he wore.
Priscilla curled her left hand and slid it behind her. She could not endure the idea of losing the ring that Neville had put on her finger as they exchanged vows yesterday. Then she told herself not to be silly. A circle of gold was worth nothing in comparison with their lives.
“Now!” The highwayman’s voice grew colder.
As she started to withdraw her hand from Neville’s to slip off her ring, his hand tightened over it. She gasped when he shifted so he was between her and the pistol.
“Begone,” Neville said in an even icier tone than the highwayman’s. “We will not be provender for the likes of a rum pad like you.”
Priscilla held her breath at his bold words which he had issued in the low cant a highwayman would understand.
The highwayman snorted a cruel laugh. “Fancy words, but hand over yer treasures now!”
“As soon as you give me one good reason, Wat Watson!”
Priscilla wondered if she or the highwayman was more shocked when Neville addressed him by name. The gun did not waver, but the thief lifted the broad brim of his hat to reveal pinched features on a thin face. His eyes grew as round as coins.
“Neville ’athaway! Ye old son of a she-dog!”
She looked from the highwayman’s now twinkling eyes to her new husband. New husband, but the same old story. If they encountered someone from the most sordid walk of life, Neville was sure to be a longstanding friend. Those tales about his past suggested some of his activities had not been exactly legal.
“Watson, your language.” Neville needed to add nothing else as he glanced at Priscilla.
The highwayman gulped and looked embarrassed. “Sorry, ma’am.” His gaze shifted back toward Neville. “Wot ye doin’ out ’ere in the middle of the night? Ye should know well enough that no one drivin’ a leathern conveniency in the middle of the night ’round ’ere is safe.”
“Leathern conveniency is a carriage,” Neville explained, glancing at her.
“I know,” Priscilla replied, “and I assume that you know this man.”
“Yes.”
“As you are acquainted, may I?” She reached out and put one finger delicately on the gun barrel and lowered it.
“I am sorry.” The highwayman grinned as he rested his elbow on the window, holding the gun with a nonchalance that amazed her. “Any lady friend of ’athaway’s is . . .”
Neville’s voice became frigid again. “She is my wife, Watson. Lady Priscilla Hathaway.”
“Wife?” The highwayman gulped again and raised his fingers to his hat. “Pardon me, m’lady.”
“Most certainly.” She hesitated, then said, “I would feel much better if you would remove that weapon altogether from the carriage. To avoid an accident.”
He made the gun disappear beneath his ragged cloak, and she heard what was undeniably a laugh from Neville.
“Watson, we will not keep you,” Neville said, “because I am sure you have other business tonight.” He glanced at her and smiled. “We do.”
“If we could speak . . . privately . . .” The highwayman started to open the carriage door.
Neville shook his head and put his hand out to keep the door shut. “Another time, Watson. Tonight is the first night of our honeymoon. I am sure you understand.”
She was shocked when Watson argued, “It will take only a moment.”
“Not now.” Neville slapped the side of the carriage, and she heard the call to the horses to continue down the road.
The highwayman jumped back toward his own horse that still stood among the trees alongside the road. He called Neville’s name, but whatever else he said vanished beneath the rattle of the carriage as it continued on its interrupted journey.
Priscilla looked out the window on her side to see Watson swing up onto his horse. He began to pursue them, then drew
in. A flash of moonlight through the clouds outlined what appeared to be another rider on a white horse.
“You need not worry about Watson,” Neville said, drawing her back into the curve of his arm. “He will find someone else as his prey tonight.”
“I am glad you know him.” She rested her head against his chest. “Do you know his partner, too?”
“Partner?” She heard the surprise in his voice. “He always works alone.”
“I thought I saw another horse and rider. It may have been a trick of the light, but . . . No, I am sure there was someone else with him.”
“If I were a betting man—”
“Which you are when you can fix the odds in your favor.”
“If I were a betting man, I would wager the moonlight betwattled you.” He smiled when she looked up at him. “If you need your curiosity satisfied, I will contact Watson and ask. Tomorrow.”
“He seemed very anxious to speak with you.”
“Whatever it is—and it most likely is nothing more important than to regale me with his recent exploits—can wait.” With a growl, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her even closer. “My dear wife, we have had too many postponements of our wedding night already.”
She clasped her hands behind his nape and gave him a saucy smile. “That is what happens when you wed a woman who has a son who ate so much wedding cake at your house that he was sick all night.”
“Leaving me with your two daughters. Leah who gave me regular, far too detailed reports on the state of Isaac’s upheavals. That child is obsessed with things most girls would be horrified with. And if that was not enough, in the midst of the clinical descriptions, Daphne took the opportunity to ask me about a man’s point of view of every look, every word, every nuance of her most recent conversation with that pup Witherspoon. I don’t know what she sees in that young fool.”
Priscilla laughed. “You sound more and more like a protective father, Neville. Lord Witherspoon is a fine young man, who has been very kind to Daphne.”
“He likes that she worships him.”
“She fancies herself in love, but you know how first loves are when you are sixteen. They burn fiercely and die just as fast. Give it some time. Soon she will be nutty over some other young man she has met. Do not let what may be no more than calf-love get you in a tizzy. A young girl’s heart is fickle. It was not so long ago that she believed herself in undying love with you.”
“Do not remind me!” His embrace tightened around her. “But enough talk about the children. They are being watched by your aunt and your household while they prepare to leave for your aunt’s country house, and we are, at long last, only minutes from the inn where we will have a wondrous night to ourselves.”
“Wondrous . . .” She welcomed this kiss with the same eagerness she had his first.
But it was cut short when a small door in the roof of the carriage opened. “Begging your pardon, Sir Neville,” came his coachman’s voice. “I thought you would want to know we are being followed.”
“How many, Stuttman?” he asked as he released Priscilla with obvious reluctance.
“One. On horseback and gaining fast.”
“Not again,” she said.
Neville shook his head. “No conveyancer would follow a carriage openly. They would sit in ambush as Watson did. I suspect the one giving chase is of a far more honest nature.” Through the door in the top of the carriage, he called, “Stop and let the rider pass so he is not muddied by our wheels.”
“I don’t think he wants to pass,” came back the coachee’s answer. “I think he wants to catch up with us.”
“Then let us see what his business is so we can be on our way.”
“The inn is around the very next bend in the road.”
Neville chuckled lowly. “Very well, Stuttman. Bring the carriage to a stop right in front of the inn’s door.”
“As you wish, Sir Neville. I shall drive it to within an inch of where you wish.” The small door closed.
“As I wish?” Neville laughed again, louder this time. “Stuttman always agrees with me until he gets what he wants.”
“A wise man,” Priscilla said.
“And will you be a wise woman and agree with me until you get what you want?”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I think we both want the same thing tonight.”
“Agreed.”
Closing her eyes, she relaxed into his strength. She knew within minutes they would have to confront whoever followed them. Stuttman would not have mentioned the rider if he had not been concerned. She wondered what he had seen that seemed out-of-the-ordinary enough to cause him to alert Neville. It had to be something other than the simple fact that few people rode out after dark because of cut-purses and thieves like Wat Watson.
The inn was brightly lit, sweeping away the darkness from the two large front windows. The sign with its name—Harriers Inn—was decorated with a hunting dog running as a hawk flew overhead. The sign was worn by wind and rain, as was the inn. A few tables were scattered across a stone terrace at the front, but no one sat there.
As the carriage slowed to a stop by the steps to the door, Priscilla heard faint voices. That sound was overwhelmed by hoofbeats behind the carriage.
“Stay close, Pris,” Neville murmured as he opened the door.
She nodded. When he assisted her out of the carriage, he drew her fingers onto the crook of his arm.
Neville remained silent as a man dismounted and walked toward them. That did not surprise her. He did nothing out of hand. He carefully appraised each situation, then took action befitting the circumstances. She could trust him with her life . . . as she had before.
The man was about even with Neville’s height, but the lamps on the inn’s façade showed that he was much heavier. When the man strode closer, she saw he was also older. He must have been close to her aunt’s age.
“I am Vincent Goodman,” said the man. The rising breeze teased his thinning hair and played his cloak out behind him. “The local justice of the peace.”
“Sir Neville Hathaway, and this is my wife Lady Priscilla.” Neville put his other hand over hers and smiled before looking back at the justice of the peace.
She tried to temper the pulse of joy. Each time Neville said, my wife, he gave her that loving smile that made her want to shout with happiness and tell the whole world how much she loved this man who had vowed to be hers forever. It was a joy that she could not have imagined a year ago. And it was a joy that she wished they could concentrate on without all these intrusions.
She struggled to concentrate on the conversation. Neville would find a way to bring it to a quick end. Even though he usually enjoyed a good coze with anyone, tonight of all nights, he was as eager as she was to shut out the rest of the world.
“I heard shots.” Mr. Goodman frowned. “And I came to investigate.”
“Shots?”
“There were at least two.”
Neville’s brows rose, and she knew he was as shocked as she was. “We heard only one,” he said.
“No, there were at least two. I am certain of that.” His scowl deepened the lines on his face. “Mayhap one was so distant that the sound of your carriage wheels masked it.”
“That is possible.”
Priscilla was astounded by Neville’s comment. Little was missed by his honed senses. When he gave her a half-smile and a wink, she understood what he would not say in someone else’s hearing. They had been too focused on each other to pay attention to what happened beyond the carriage.
Before Mr. Goodman could reply, rapid hoofbeats thudded toward them. Neville pushed her behind him, but not before she saw the dismay and fear on the justice of the peace’s face. From the box, Stuttman called out to the rider to stop and identify himself.
; She wondered why. No highwayman would be halted by a simple command. Then, when the coachee shouted again, she realized he was warning the rider that the carriage and its passengers were in the inn’s yard.
The horse slowed, and a man jumped down to rush toward them.
Mr. Goodman muttered, “Late as always.”
She assumed he spoke of the man who skidded to a stop next to the justice of the peace. Instead of speaking, he stared at the tips of his boots, as if enthralled with them.
“Kenyon, where have you been?” Mr. Goodman demanded.
“I heard shots—”
“And came as quickly as you could.” Mr. Goodman’s voice became sarcastic. “The same old tale, as always.” Gesturing toward the newcomer, he added, “Sir Neville, Lady Priscilla, this is Constable Kenyon, who has served nearly half his term without much to show for it.”
The constable raised his gaze from his boots. He was younger than Mr. Goodman, claiming no more than thirty years. His clothes were rough, as befit a man of his standing and duties, but if he had worn finer feathers, the young misses of the ton would be swooning at the very thought of his broad shoulders and how his dark hair dropped toward his equally brown eyes. She was glad her older daughter Daphne was not here to fall instantly in love with him.
That handsome face lengthened with a frown. “There have been too many robberies by highwaymen and their ilk in the past few years. Despite all efforts—my predecessors as well as my own—the roads have become more dangerous. Our local folks know better than to travel after dark.”
Mr. Goodman scowled, and the constable looked at his boots again. “We have no wish to impugn your decisions, Sir Neville.”
“No insult was taken.” Neville smiled coolly.
“I trust you and your lovely wife are unharmed.”
“Quite.”
If the justice of the peace was astonished by Neville’s terse answers, Priscilla saw no sign. Neville stepped away as boys came rushing out of the inn to get the bags from the carriage’s boot. The boys were shouting with excitement. When they glanced toward the downcast constable, she noticed Constable Kenyon’s ears turning red. She wanted to ask what was amiss, but held her tongue. She was no longer a pastor’s wife with the duty of helping those in obvious discomfort.
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