Gentleman's Master

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  The quiet was broken when Mr. Cross pushed past to a chair in the room’s center. He jumped onto it and waved his arms.

  Neville’s face grew blank, and that worried her. He must not trust someone in the room, or maybe it was all of them, save her. She wished she could ask, but questions would have to wait.

  “Most of ye know Hathaway!” crowed Mr. Cross. “He is back with us.”

  Greetings in accents that came from the heart of London to the parishes that edged the city roared through the room. Priscilla took careful note of who did not call out to him. The silent men and women had faces that were suspicious and cautious. Many were young, and she guessed they had not been part of the Order long. She wondered what had forced them to leave a lawful life to become thieves and highwaymen and she did not want to think what else.

  “He has come,” Mr. Cross continued, “to help us find out who laid Watson low.”

  Shocked gasps met the coldhearted announcement. Dozens of questions flew through the room, each one demanding information, but Mr. Cross had nothing more to tell them than he had revealed to her and Neville.

  She slipped her hand into Neville’s, and he wove his fingers amongst hers. Her shoulders stiffened when Mr. Cross finished his tale with, “And Hathaway will help us find the bastard wot killed Watson.”

  “I said I would try,” Neville interjected among the curses and crows for vengeance. “That is all I can do.”

  “Ye can do more’n try.” A ragged man with a nose that seemed to be going in a different direction from the rest of him poked his finger at Neville’s chest. “Ye ’ave been a thief-taker, ’athaway. Conveniently after ye were amongst us learning all we know.”

  “I never betrayed a member of the Order, if that is what you are intimating, Gully,” he replied.

  Priscilla drew her hand out of his, wanting to give him room to protect them. She scanned the room. Several people had their hands on daggers at their waists. No one had drawn a weapon, but she had no doubts these criminals were very quick. If they were not, they would be dead by now.

  “Why are you accusing me of something I would never do?” asked Neville.

  The ragged man stared at his feet, and she saw what he tried to hide. He was scared. No one else met her eyes, but as they shifted away, she saw fear like on Gully’s face. They were afraid because of Mr. Watson’s death. She recalled Mr. Cross’s assertion that the highwayman’s death was the latest in a string of murders. Every person in the room, save for her and Neville, believed down to the core of their bones that he or she could be the next victim and that death would go unsolved as well. Worse, it would be unavenged, because this gathering of thieves had little faith in the law.

  “Cross,” Neville continued as if there had been no pause, “the hour is late. We have wasted enough time. Say what you must, and then we shall be on our way.”

  “Back to yer honeymoon?” taunted the thief.

  “We each have different plans for the night.” Neville acted as calm as if they shared on dits in a parlor, but when he draped his arm over her shoulders, she sensed the tension in him. Not a sign of it appeared on his face, and his stance defined nonchalance.

  She wondered if she could ever hide her feelings so completely. She must try. Neville depended on her not to ruin his pose.

  “Our plan,” Mr. Cross said over the rumble of other voices, “is to find the one who put out Watson’s lights. He was yer friend, Hathaway. Ye need to help us.”

  “I will, but first I need information.” Neville gave them a cool smile. “Where he was found, how he was slain, anything that would give us a clue to lead us to the truth.”

  “Maybe ye expect that we should go to the constable and tell him that we need his help.”

  Guffaws echoed Mr. Cross’s words, but the fear had not lessened. That frightened her more because these hardened men and women would not be scared easily.

  “No,” Neville replied, “but we can go to the constable and seek his assistance.”

  “By revealin’ where we are?” A tall man with a narrow, bony face reached for his dagger.

  “Put it away, Frampton,” said Mr. Cross without even looking in the thin man’s direction. “Hathaway was one of us.”

  “Was. Who knows what ’e is now that ’e is some ’igh and mighty lord? ’e might be ’ere to collect the bounties on our ’eads so ’e can gamble it away in some fancy club.”

  A rush of dismay swirled through the room like a sudden gust.

  Neville chuckled, and Priscilla wondered if his equanimity was now genuine.

  His laugh squashed any other sound. Leaning one shoulder against the wall, he shook his head. “No matter what you might think, my friends, the total bounties on all your heads would not be enough to interest some gamesters I know.” He abruptly sobered and stood straighter. “And if you think I came here tonight of all nights to betray you, then there is no reason to stay.” Holding out his hand, he said, “Pris, get your blindfold because we are leaving.”

  “Wait!” shouted a woman a generation older than Priscilla. She elbowed her way between two men. Her hair was streaked with threads of silver, but she still had the figure of a younger woman and carried herself with pride. Her dress was not as ragged as the clothes worn by others in the room because it had been mended with a skilled hand.

  No one else moved as she walked to Neville. She raised her hand to aim it at his face, and Priscilla drew in a sharp breath and stepped forward. The woman did not glance at her as she patted Neville’s cheek with the affection of an aunt or sister.

  “Ye ’ave been gone a long time, Neville,” she said in a melodic voice that, save for her accent, would not have been out of place in an elegant house. “Do not let a chap whose garret is empty send ye away again. I must say, ye ’ave become a fine man. Not scrawny like ye used to be.”

  “Lilabet, you know I never was scrawny.”

  Her laugh lilted. “Ye should ’ave looked in a glass then, m’boy. Ye were like a rooster without ’is feathers, even when ye was struttin’ ’bout like some fine cock ’o the walk.” She looked at Priscilla and said, “Ye shall need to keep a close eye on this one.”

  Priscilla fought not to bristle at the woman’s suggestion that Neville would not be faithful to her, then stared in disbelief as Neville answered, “A task I have happily accepted, and I will own, Lilabet, that she surprises me often.”

  “Good. Ye need to be taken down a peg now and then.” She winked at him.

  Swallowing her shock, Priscilla hoped no one had noticed her reaction to Lilabet’s words. Not for a moment had she imagined the woman would be warning Neville about her. Who was Lilabet, and why had she intruded?

  “I will explain later,” Neville murmured from the side of his mouth, as Mr. Cross, who had showed an unexpected patience during the exchange, called for silence again.

  She nodded, hoping her face had not revealed her uncertainty.

  “Someone is huntin’ us like dogs,” growled the thief.

  Priscilla did not want to hear Mr. Cross repeat himself yet again. Nor did anyone else, because several men called for him to get to the point.

  “Tell’m ’bout the ’orses, Cross!” ordered Lilabet.

  “Why waste time with horses when we are being hunted like—”

  “Dogs,” the outspoken woman interrupted. She jammed her hands onto her hips. “Yes, yes, we know all ’bout that. Tell’m ’bout the ’orses.”

  “What about the horses?” Neville asked, his eyes narrowing. Any hint of good humor had vanished, and that was a signal to Priscilla to heed every word.

  Mr. Cross snarled an oath. “The dead men’s horses vanish, and a few days later, a farmer starts braggin’ around the shire about how he has a new horse just like one ridden by a dead knight of the pad.”

  “At first,
we thought one of them killed off our mates,” added Frampton. “But a lot of farmers are finding riderless ’orses in their barns.”

  Priscilla glanced at Neville. His brow was furrowed, and she knew he was trying to make these pieces of information fit together. She wondered if he had any idea how. It was too peculiar.

  “Are you saying,” Neville asked slowly, “that someone takes the horses, hides them, and then distributes them to farmers throughout the shire?”

  “Aye,” Mr. Cross muttered.

  “That is absurd.”

  “Aye, but that is what is occurrin’.” He jutted his chin toward Neville, as if asking for a fist to its point.

  Before he could give into that temptation, Priscilla said, “No, Neville, it is not absurd. It is a well-thought-out plan. The constable is so busy trying to halt the living highwaymen and dealing with the corpses of the dead that he probably has not given a thought to their mounts. I am sure if Constable Kenyon has considered the missing horses, he believes they ran off or were stolen by someone else. With the lapsed time between the killings and the arrival of a horse in a grateful farmer’s barn, he may not have connected the two events.” She faced Mr. Cross who regarded her open-mouthed. In a tone she would have used with her children when they were thoughtless, she added, “Sir, you could have done your comrades a great disservice by keeping this information to yourself.”

  “So you think I should have knocked on the constable’s door and spilled the whole of it?” His laugh was derisive and dismissive.

  “Quite to the contrary. I would not expect you to do such a want-witted thing, but there must be one among you who can write.”

  Heads turned, looking for one who had such a skill.

  “A note is fine fer askin’ someone to call at yer fancy house, m’lady,” Mr. Cross fired back, “but not fer us.”

  “Then you may have caused needless deaths.”

  Neville seized her arm and drew her beside him before Mr. Cross could do more than put his hand on his dagger’s haft. Under his breath, he hissed, “Stop antagonizing them, Pris.”

  She stiffened, then nodded. Again she was glad for the trust she could put in him. If she had continued to argue or reminding Mr. Cross—quite rightly—that their best chance of halting the murderer was by sharing information with the authorities, Mr. Cross might do more than threaten with his knife. But it was so vexing to see an obvious solution, and the highwayman refused to consider it.

  “You asked for our help,” Neville said. “We can take that information to Constable Kenyon. Mayhap he can use it to discover the identity of the murderer.”

  “We don’t want his help.” Mr. Cross scowled. “If I had wanted his help, I would have snatched the constable instead of ye.”

  “But we will speak to the constable, whether you like it or not. He is sure to know something you don’t.”

  “Do not be so sure of that, Neville m’boy,” murmured Lilabet. “The lad is worthless.”

  “Mayhap,” Neville said, “but if he has information that will help you, why would you turn it away? That you are on different sides of the law does not matter when you have a common goal—to find and halt this murderer before anyone else dies.”

  “Wot if ’e tells Kenyon ’bout all of us?” Frampton bounced from one foot to the other in his anxiety. “’ow can we trust ye?”

  Neville bristled. “No one here has cause to doubt my word. If you will look past your nose, Frampton, you will recall that I did not need to come here.” He turned to Mr. Cross who still stood on the chair. “I misjudged you. You are not willing to do what you must to stop this murderer. That being the case, there is nothing we can do here.”

  Shouts rippled through the room. They were aimed at Mr. Cross and at Neville.

  Priscilla squared her shoulders and raised her voice. “I may have seen the murderer.”

  The room became as quiet as a corpse.

  “Pris?” asked Neville, staring at her along with every other person gathered in the small space.

  “I may have seen the murderer tonight. When we bid Mr. Watson adieu, I glanced back. I saw a horse and rider close to him as we drove away.”

  “Did you see the man’s face?” demanded Mr. Cross.

  She shook her head. “At the time I thought it was one of you, but I convinced myself that it was no more than the moonlight tricking my eyes.” She glanced at Neville when he squeezed her hand. Did he think she would have blurted out that he persuaded her not to go back to see if something was amiss?

  “You were wrong, m’lady,” growled Mr. Cross.

  “Yes, I was wrong. I wish I had looked more closely, but I did not.” She paused, then said, “I think the horse was a light color. It seemed to glow in the faint light, so it may have been white or a shade close to that.”

  The highwayman laughed icily. “All we need to do is find a faceless man on a white horse, and we will have our murderer.”

  “What is so funny?” Neville strode to Mr. Cross’s chair. “It is information you did not have before.”

  “It is worthless information.”

  “Now, but who knows what it might reveal later?”

  “Nothing. How do we know yer woman is tellin’ the truth? She may be lyin’ so she can get out of here and lie next to ye.”

  Snickers echoed his crude comment.

  Neville opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it. Turning on his heel, he offered his arm to Priscilla. She acted unaware of the thieves’ stares. Gracefully she placed her fingers on his arm and walked with him toward the door. He drew away far enough to whip the blindfold out from beneath his coat. As he was about to put it around her head, Mr. Cross jumped down from his chair and ran toward them.

  “Stop, Hathaway!” he ordered.

  “You don’t want our help, Cross. You want an instant answer. That we cannot give you.”

  “Ye said ye would help us. Now ye are runnin’ off like a frightened dog.”

  Neville laughed shortly. “You do have a common thread in your comments, which is no surprise for someone who has shown again and again that he is the son of a she-dog.”

  The highwayman puffed up like a cobra about to strike. “Ye are no better than she! Actin’ all fancy, and then bein’ as false as a bulletin.”

  Folding his arms in front of him, Neville closed his fingers into fists. “You are known as Double Cross. Not me.”

  A few laughs came from the far side of the room. They silenced when Mr. Cross glared over his shoulder.

  “So ye will not help us?” asked Mr. Cross, stepping closer.

  Priscilla eased out of his way, moving between Neville and the door. Mr. Cross was no gentleman, and he might strike a woman without remorse. As well, if Neville needed to defend them, she must be out of his way.

  “I did not say that, Cross!”

  “Mayhap this will change yer mind.” He sprang forward.

  Before Priscilla could move, Mr. Cross threw the door open. Neville reached for her, but Mr. Cross was quicker. She stumbled through the doorway into another room, this one dark save for evenly spaced faint light beyond an arch. Windows?

  At that moment, a sound exploded into the space. Its resonance told her what her eyes could not. The place where she was now was large and the ceiling far above her head. She flinched, startled, as a bell tolled. She glanced at Mr. Cross in the doorway. A slow smile slithered across his lips, as if daring her to speak aloud what she thought. She would not be that want-witted.

  As the bell continued to toll the hour, she realized with a pulse of shock that it was so close that the Order must meet in the back room of a church. Did the vicar know that this group of scoundrels had taken shelter here? She thought of her late husband, and she knew Lazarus would have granted sanctuary to anyone in danger, whether law-abiding or a
criminal.

  Light flooded into the dark, and Priscilla turned to see Mr. Cross now held a lantern. As she looked around, she discovered her suspicions had been correct. The altar to her left was backed by the Ten Commandments painted on ebony boards. To her right through the arch, boxed pews flanked a narrow aisle. The church’s single glory was over the door to the porch. It was a grand stained glass window where St. George stood on a dragon pierced by his spear.

  “Yer choice, Hathaway,” Mr. Cross said from behind her. “Ye know the rules of the Order. Yer wife can lead the authorities to this church. Usually that would mean her death. However, as ye were once of the Order, I will be lenient and let her live.” His lips grew thin in the parody of a smile. “For as long as ye agree to my terms.”

  “Or until the murderer is unmasked.”

  “Yes.”

  Neville came out into the church and drew Priscilla closer. Her feet felt wooden as she realized how Mr. Cross had manipulated them to get what he wanted . . . and how she had played right into his hands.

  “Once we have discovered the murderer’s identity,” Neville said, “and the bounder hangs—“

  “No, ye bring him to us. We will deal him our own sort of justice.” He laughed tersely. “Ye may have become a Tom Tell-Truth, but ye must remember how we handle such matters.”

  “If I turn him over to the constable . . .”

  “Yer wife will take his place in our justice.”

  Chapter Five

  NEVILLE GRABBED Priscilla’s hand. If she had not seen anything to identify where the Order met, he still might be able to . . .

  “You look surprised, m’lady. D’ye know were we be?” asked Cross.

  Before he could warn her to silence, Priscilla replied, “St. George’s Church-near-the-Brook.”

  Neville did not try to halt his groan. Dash it! He should have guessed she would be familiar with the parishes close to London. After all, she and Lazarus had played host to many parsons, and there had been talk before his death that Lazarus was in line for a higher post in the church.