Gentleman's Master

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  She was not where she had been. When he risked taking his eyes from the senseless intruder, he saw a very attractive backside tilted up just beyond the bed. He wished he could take time to admire it as she reached for the gun that had slid away, but he looked back at the man on the floor.

  He heard Priscilla come to her feet and walk toward him, so he was not surprised when the gun was held out gingerly for him to take. She never hid her dislike of pistols. Not that she needed to use one, because her weapons were a disarming warmth and a quick mind.

  “Be careful,” she warned. “It is loaded.”

  “So I presumed.” He gave her a smile to lessen the strain in his voice.

  “How is he?”

  “Still senseless. How did he get in here?”

  “Through the door.” Her brows lowered in the same frown she gave her children when they failed to follow through on a task. “I assumed that you locked it.”

  “I honestly never gave the idea a thought. I was, I must own, thinking of only one thing.” He ran his fingers along her cheek. “You fill my mind, as you do my heart.”

  “Pretty words are not like you, Neville.” She leaned into his caress.

  “You have changed me in more ways than either you or I could guess.”

  “Clearly so, since you have not searched the intruder or looked for any clue as to his identity and why he would come in here.”

  Neville sighed. She was right, as she so often was. He should not be using the time the sneaksman was unconscious to ply Priscilla with nothing-sayings.

  Tilting the gun, he examined it. A simple pocket pistol. Anything that might have identified it had been removed. Or more likely lost, because the gun showed signs of hard use. Scratches marred the barrel, concealing what pattern had been etched on it. The grip must have had stones or silver set into it, but only holes remained.

  “A gentleman’s gun,” Priscilla said quietly.

  “I would guess the same.” He winked. “For a late vicar’s wife, you have an amazing knowledge of weapons.”

  “I am your wife now and would be wise to know more about such things.”

  He was torn between grinning at her jest and tossing the gun aside so he could pull her into his arms and make her his wife in truth. He was saved from making the decision when a groan came from the man on the floor. The man did not regain his senses, but slumped more heavily against the bed. What did thieves dream about? Being caught or making a magnificent heist? He could not recall ever being able to sleep deeply enough to dream during his years wandering back and forth between a legitimate life and an illicit one.

  A quick search of the intruder revealed a pair of daggers and another pistol beneath his ragged coat. With haste, Neville stepped behind the screen and set them on the floor, but kept the gun Priscilla had handed him.

  At the sound of the man trying to regain his feet, Priscilla called Neville’s name lowly. There was no panic in her voice, but her urgency warned him that the Newgate bird was a threat once more.

  Returning to stand beside her, Neville put his arm around her shoulders. They were as steady as the bedframe itself. Her gaze was focused on the man pushing himself to his feet.

  The intruder was almost as tall as Neville. His hat had been knocked off, and dark hair hung lifelessly around his shoulders. The mask was askew, so he pulled it off and revealed a scarred face that spoke of a rough life. His brown eyes narrowed as he looked at the gun Neville held easily.

  “If you leave now,” Neville said, motioning toward the door with the pistol, “I will not send for the constable.”

  “Kenyon?” The thief laughed coldly. “I am so scared I am shakin’.” He snorted his derision. “That cow-hearted pup cannot wipe his—” He glanced at Priscilla and amended, “Cannot wipe his nose by hisself.”

  Neville wondered what it was about her that made even a thief suddenly acquire the manners of a schoolboy facing his tutor. She had not said a word. She was not looking down her nose at the man as her aunt would have. She simply regarded him with calm curiosity.

  “Why did you come here?” she asked.

  “Why do ye think?” the man growled back.

  “I don’t know. If you had intended to rob me, you would have made that demand and been gone before Neville returned. Why did you come here?”

  “Answer her.” Neville shifted his thumb as if getting ready to fire. “Politely.”

  The man grumbled again, then said, “I came with a message fer ye, Hathaway.” He hooked a thumb toward Priscilla. “Thought I would wait fer ye here. I didn’t know yer doxy was in here.”

  “My wife.”

  “Truly?” The man whistled under his breath. “Lots of money must be changin’ hands coz not many thought ye’d ever find yerself in the parson’s mousetrap.”

  Neville lowered the gun. “Have we met?”

  “No, but we have common acquaintances. In the Order.”

  Neville flinched, not expecting to hear that name spoken openly in this country inn. Then he wondered why he was surprised. The Order had been growing stronger in eastern England since the last century.

  Taking his cue from Priscilla, he asked in a conversational tone, “I have many acquaintances. You will need to be more specific.”

  “All right.” He ground his teeth. “I know ye know Watson.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I thought ye’d want to know what has happened to him.”

  “Was he caught?”

  The man laughed coldly. “Are yer ears workin’? The constable is useless and ’fraid of his own shadow. Since he was appointed, our lives were easier. Till recently. No, the constable didn’t get him. Someone else did.”

  Beneath his arm, Priscilla gave a sudden shiver, and Neville knew her thoughts matched his.

  “Spit it out, man!” he ordered. “What has happened to Watson?”

  “He is dead.”

  “Dead?” Neville choked on the single word.

  “Not just dead. Murdered.”

  Chapter Three

  PRISCILLA WATCHED in silence as Neville poured a generous serving of brandy and handed the glass to the man who had been waiting in the room when she emerged from behind the dressing screen. Neville had called down the stairs to his coachee, and Stuttman had come up with the bottle. When Neville had suggested the intruder was a friend of a friend, it had not been a lie, but she had seen that Stuttman was keenly aware that something was amiss.

  Yes, she wanted to shout as the coachman turned to take his leave. There is something horribly wrong here! A man was able to sneak into the room while I changed, our wedding night dissolved into a fistfight, and the highwayman who had halted our carriage has been murdered.

  She bit her lip, saying nothing. As she sat with her hands folded in her lap, she could not keep from fingering the lace of the nightdress and dressing gown she had sewn herself for this special night. It would not be the night she and Neville had planned. Mr. Watson had been murdered.

  She shivered again. Death she understood. It was part of the normal progression of life. But murder—even though she had been a witness to its aftermath too many times—still went beyond anything she could comprehend. There always was a reason for such a heinous act, mayhap a reason that no sane mind could understand, but still a reason.

  “M’name is Cross.” The intruder downed a good portion of pungent brandy. “And ye are Hathaway.”

  “Yes,” Neville replied, putting his hand on the footboard not far from where she sat. “But you said you knew me.”

  “I know of ye. Is she really yer wife?”

  Neville’s voice grew stern, as it did when he became impatient. “If you have not noticed, this is not a social occasion. The introductions can wait. I want to know about Watson. I saw the man on the way here. He was very muc
h alive then.”

  “He is dead now.” Mr. Cross tipped back the glass and drank. Wiping his lips on the back of his hand, he shuddered. “I saw his corpse m’self.” He glanced at Priscilla, then lowered his eyes. “Was no pretty sight. Mayhap yer lady should not be hearin’ this.”

  “I am fine,” she piped in before Neville could concur. When Neville gave a sardonic arch of his brows, she did not, for once, feel like smiling. The idea that the highwayman was dead made her stomach roil like a storm-swept sea.

  Mr. Watson had been rough in speaking and manner, but she could not forget that he was also Neville’s friend. She had seen how gray Neville’s face had become at the horrible news. Was he thinking—as she could not halt herself from doing—that the highwayman might still be alive if Neville had paused long enough to hear what Mr. Watson had been so eager to tell them? No, she doubted Neville’s thoughts had gone in that direction. He never looked back and rehashed old decisions. It was one of the many things she admired about him.

  Priscilla took the glass Neville handed to her. She seldom drank brandy, but, when she sipped it, she appreciated the warmth, even though it did little to ease the cold knot around her heart.

  “You will find, Cross,” Neville said, “that my wife has the robust soul of a medieval knight.”

  The other man looked puzzled by the reference and shrugged before saying, “Watson is only the latest to die.”

  “The latest?” asked Neville in a nonchalant tone, but she was not fooled. Tension tightened his fingers around his own glass.

  “We are bein’ hunted.”

  “That is to be expected. You are outlaws, wanted by the law. Some of you have bounties on your heads.”

  “No, Hathaway, this is different. Someone is huntin’ us. Settin’ traps and snares and shootin’ us down. That’s wot happened to Watson. Snared and shot while he was tryin’ to free hisself.”

  Priscilla put her hand over her stomach, fearful that it would erupt. What a horrible way to die!

  “Not a fit way to go,” Mr. Cross grumbled. “We all know we could meet our end in a tight cravat.”

  “In a what?” asked Priscilla.

  “A noose.” Neville sat on the footboard.

  She put her hand on his leg, glad to be able to touch him.

  “But this is different,” Mr. Cross continued, obviously vexed that they were no longer paying attention to him. “Everyone whose means are two pops and a galloper—”

  “A highwayman,” Neville whispered.

  “—knows that the gallows may be waitin’ fer him. This is different. Men should not be hunted like beasts. Worse, because whoever is doing this hides his steps so well we have no clues.” He leaned toward Neville. “I heard about wot ye did in London when those fancy folks started dyin’. Ye found the murderer. We need ye to find this one.”

  “You may not have taken note, but I am on my honeymoon.”

  Mr. Cross had the decency to flush. “I had no idea . . . that is, we need help so badly . . .” He squared his shoulders and raised his chin. “Damnation take it, Hathaway! This cannot wait while ye cavort with yer missus. We are bein’ hunted like deer. Nay, like dogs. We have lost too many. Watson is just the most recent.”

  Neville winced again at the mention of the highwayman’s name. She wished she could offer him some comfort, but now was not the time. She must, as she had so often before, take her cues from him.

  “So,” Neville asked quietly, “what would you have me do?”

  “Find the bastard who is tryin’ to kill all of us.”

  “That is the constable’s job.”

  “Kenyon only stirs from his fireside when the justice of the peace insists or when he is trailin’ after the skirts of Lord Rossington’s daughters, specially the youngest. He is carryin’ coals to Newcastle if he thinks the baron would let a lowly constable marry any of his daughters. We need someone who can help. Like you, Hathaway.”

  “Why would I have any better luck at doing such a thing than any of you?” Coming to his feet, he flung out a hand. “You in the Order must know every rock and tree within three shires. If you cannot find the murderer, why do you think I could?”

  “Ye have found others.”

  “In places with which I am familiar.”

  “Ye know us and our ways, too.” A sly smile slipped across Mr. Cross’s lips. “Ye may be a fine nib now, but ye once was one of the low. Just as Watson was.”

  Priscilla had to admire Mr. Cross’s ability to gauge what would change Neville’s mind. At the mention of Mr. Watson’s name, Neville squared his shoulders as his mouth worked with the curses he usually did not hesitate to speak in her hearing. Or was Neville failing to offer his keen-eyed assistance for another reason?

  Slowly she came to her feet. Putting her hand on Neville’s arm, she said, “Mr. Cross, if you will step outside for a moment while we talk . . .”

  He ignored her. “Hathaway, we need yer help. Now. Before someone else is toes up in a shallow grave.”

  “Mr. Cross, if you will step outside for a moment while we talk . . .”

  This time he looked at her. His eyes were squinted almost into oblivion, but the lines gouged into his now ruddy face spoke of his anger. She saw no signs of grief, but he might be the sort who would not give in to his sorrow until there was nothing else he could do.

  Exactly as she did.

  She thought he would say something, but he nodded. Going to the door, he opened it. “A moment only,” he said, grabbing the brandy bottle before closing the door behind him. A thump, probably his shoulder on it, resonated through the boards.

  As soon as the door closed, Neville sighed. “Watson was, in spite of his trade, a good and fair man.”

  “And your friend.” She resisted her yearning to put her arms around him. If she did, she might give in to tears. Not solely for his friend, but for him as well. She must not. Neville needed to consider the task ahead of him.

  “Yes, a friend I tried to persuade to leave the life as a knight of the pad, but he had come to love the excitement and the rewards. Even though he was the wisest man I know with horses, working in a stable would have bored him to death. Those were his words. Bored to death.” His hands clenched with the frustration bare on his face. “And now the poor fool is dead.”

  “Murdered. Something quite different.”

  “Not to Watson.”

  A twinge of sorrow pierced her, but she pushed it aside. She must think about Neville’s grief and what he could do to ease it. “You know you cannot turn down Mr. Cross’s request for help.”

  “Pris . . .” The hunger in his eyes almost undid her resolve to postpone their wedding night yet again.

  She brushed her lips against his. When he moaned with the craving she understood so well, she drew back and whispered, “We have the rest of our married lives together.”

  “But I do not want to waste a moment.”

  “Nor do I.” She smiled. “Nor does Mr. Cross. He shall be banging on the door soon.”

  With a sigh worthy of a martyr, he nodded. “It should not take long to deal with this, because I was honest when I said I have no idea how I might succeed where they who know the countryside so well have failed. If I leave now, I should be back before the moon sets.”

  “No.” She folded her arms in front of her.

  “No?” Astonishment widened his eyes. “Pris, didn’t you just say I have to go and help him?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Pris, I know it was supposed to be our wedding night.” He glanced at the bed, and another sigh—this one deep and sorrowful—drifted from him. “But Watson was my friend.”

  “I know that.”

  “So let me go and do what I can to help him.”

  “No.”

  His brow furrowe
d in the scowl he seldom aimed at her. “It is not like you to play coy. Be reasonable.”

  “I am.” She pulled the gown she had worn from behind the screen. “And I am going with you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! These men are desperate and dangerous.”

  She curved her hand along his cheek. “I am accustomed to dangerous men. After all, I married one.”

  His smile returned, warm and sensuous and making her feel exactly the same. She wanted to slip out of her nightdress and into his arms.

  “Are you trying to woo me with sweet words?” he asked. “I have learned how useless such a tactic is with you.”

  “That is good because I am going with you.”

  He shook his head. “I know better than to argue with that tone, even when you are acting out of hand.”

  “Good. You will wait for me to change?”

  “I said—”

  “You said you would not argue with me. You did not say you would wait for me to change clothes.”

  “I will, Pris.” He captured her face between his broad hands. “As long as you will wait for me to be the husband I want to be.” His lips danced along hers, and she softened into him.

  Every inch of her begged her to forget about the rest of the world and its troubles. She had waited for this night, and she wanted it. No, she wanted him.

  He released her before spinning her around and, with a light pat on her bottom, gave her a gentle push toward the screen. “Get dressed.” He gave a groan. “Not words I thought I would say tonight.”

  Priscilla smiled. If she spoke, she suspected she would not be able to keep from trying to change his mind again. It was right for him—for them—to help find Mr. Watson’s murderer, but she wanted Neville all to herself. As she went behind the screen to dress, her smile became more genuine. At first glance, her late husband and Neville were very different men, but, in truth, they were so much the same. Both of them cared deeply for others, putting their own happiness aside while they tried to ease the way for friends and even strangers. How many nights had Lazarus been called away to the home of one of his parishioners while she or one of the children had been sick or tired or just needed to be held? She had understood the obligations of his life, but that had not made the situation any easier.