Gentleman's Master

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “Watch your language,” he retorted when a strangled gasp came from Lady Rossington. “The ladies are unaccustomed to such strong words.”

  Priscilla turned to offer comfort to Lady Rossington, but kept her ears open to the rest of the conversation. Neville would tell her everything the baron said, unless he suffered from a sudden case of chivalry and thought he could protect her from the baser aspects of life beyond the ton. It did not happen often, but vexed her when it did.

  Lady Rossington took a fan from Miss Verlyn and waved it furiously in front of her face. “My lord, please speak of something more appropriate for our guests and our daughters.”

  “You speak of little but those highwaymen!” He forgot himself in his astonishment. “You want their attacks stopped, as I do.”

  “But to speak of them like animals being hunted . . .” She gave a genteel shudder.

  “Those men are outlaws!” exclaimed their host. “They have no protection under the law. Anyone who slays them does the crown a favor. Can you imagine how it would be not to have to worry about your carriage being stopped by some knight of the pad and your wife faced with danger?” He looked at Neville, obviously wanting him to join in the conversation. On his side. “You have a wife, Hathaway! Surely you want to protect her.”

  “Without question.” He went to stand beside Priscilla and took her hand, earning shocked glances from the Rossington women at such a public display of affection. “But I have no interest in seeing anyone, guilty or innocent, hunted down like a stray dog.”

  “Do you think it matters to them whether they end up dead by being shot or by being hanged?”

  Lady Rossington cleared her throat. Without looking at her husband, she said, “I wonder where tea is. I hope you do not mind me having sent for tea and cakes. I suspected you would want something to wash the dust from your throats.”

  “You did not order it, Mama,” said Miss Katherine.

  Looking baffled, Lady Rossington nodded. “I must have forgotten it amidst this excitement. Do ring for it, will you, my dear?”

  “Yes, Mama.” She came gracefully to her feet and went to a table where a small bell waited.

  Miss Verlyn and another sister rose as well.

  Lady Rossington gave them a startled glance, then said, “You may be excused.” As the two girls walked to the door, the lady went on, “They have lessons and, to own the truth, I would rather they did not listen to this conversation. Such topics as these are not for a young woman’s ears. Verlyn has been on edge since our carriage was halted by those curs, and I daresay she finds the conversation unsettling. If . . .” She looked at the door and frowned.

  Priscilla followed her gaze. Constable Kenyon stood in the doorway, effectively blocking it so the Rossington sisters could not take their leave. His clothes were filthy from what looked like a hard ride, and she wondered why he had come to the house in such a hurry. Priscilla was not surprised to see him glance with a guarded smile at Miss Verlyn. The young woman nodded her head, and his smile grew wider. Had the two been riding together? No, Miss Verlyn was clearly sensible, and she would not risk her reputation by doing such a foolish thing.

  Lady Rossington cleared her throat in a message every daughter understood. Miss Verlyn stepped aside, drawing her sister with her, so the constable might enter. Neither young woman moved as they watched Constable Kenyon nod to acknowledge Priscilla and the baroness.

  “Constable Kenyon.” The baron motioned impatiently to him. “Come here and share the good tidings you have brought us.”

  The young man had a jaunty lilt to his step, but he glanced around like a hunted beast scanning the landscape for predators. Was he looking for an ally or an enemy? His eyes paused ever so slightly when his gaze alighted on Miss Verlyn who pushed a stray hair under her cap. It was a common motion, but Priscilla could not help thinking there was more being communicated. With every passing moment, she was more certain that the young woman had a tendre for the constable. The baron would not wish his daughter to marry a constable, and Priscilla remembered how long it had taken for her own father to give consent for her to accept a pastor’s offer of marriage. What would her father have thought of Neville?

  She smothered a laugh and looked at her folded hands in her lap. Usually she controlled her reactions far better, but she was exhausted.

  “Are you all right, Lady Priscilla?” one of the Rossington daughters asked.

  “Yes, quite. Thank you.” She forced a smile. Edgar and Agatha watched the constable as if he were a cat and they mice. And mice would fight viciously if backed into a corner. Neville moved so he stood between them and Constable Kenyon.

  “I am relieved to see that you and Lady Priscilla are safe, Sir Neville.” The constable shifted his hat from hand to hand, as if it were on fire.

  “You saw us at the inn this morning,” Neville returned.

  “Yes, that is true.” He swallowed roughly. “But I am pleased to see you reached Rossington Hall without incident.”

  The baron said, “I trust you have another reason for calling, Kenyon.”

  “I would like to speak with you, my lord, and with Sir Neville, if I may.” His gaze swept the room, lingering a moment longer on Miss Verlyn than anyone else. “Without the ladies, if I may be so bold.”

  Priscilla stood. “If I may be so bold, could I be shown to a guest room? I would like to have the opportunity to rest after our journey.”

  Neville arched a brow, and she mirrored the motion back to him. If, while the ladies were present, the constable would not reveal what he had come in such a hurry to say, then she must excuse herself posthaste. Taking her leave would force Agatha and Edgar out of earshot. Having highwaymen as watchdogs was becoming more difficult, and it was only beginning.

  Chapter Seven

  MISS VERLYN offered to go with Priscilla and her “servants” to the rooms they would use as guests at Rossington Hall. As soon as they had left the parlor behind, Miss Verlyn said, “I trust you will not be offended if we use the family’s private staircase.”

  “Certainly not,” Priscilla replied.

  “I know you are fatigued, and this is the quickest route.”

  “It is kind of you to think of our concerns foremost.”

  Again the young woman flushed, and Priscilla was startled that a simple comment would bring such color to Miss Verlyn’s cheeks. Hearing Edgar’s grumble behind her, she aimed a frown over her shoulder when they came to the staircase that was divided into two sections for the first five steps. He became silent.

  Turning to follow Miss Verlyn, Priscilla almost bumped into a woman coming up the stairs from the other side. Her eyes widened when she recognized the woman carrying the bundle of clothing .

  Lilabet who had been in the church with the thieves! What was she doing at Rossington Hall?

  Neither Agatha nor Edgar spoke as Lilabet hurried past them up the stairs.

  Miss Verlyn acted as if nothing unusual had occurred. Why would a member of the highwaymen’s Order have such a legitimate and longstanding position at Rossington Hall that the baron’s daughter paid her no mind?

  Priscilla continued to puzzle that riddle while Miss Verlyn led them along the corridor in the direction Lilabet had disappeared. Small tables were set between the widely spaced doorways, except where a long-case clock marked the passage of time with a regular ticktock. The walls and the ceiling were the same impersonal white, and Priscilla wondered if plans to repaint had been halted. Not recently, she realized, when she saw cobwebs near a corner. She remembered Neville’s words about the Rossingtons preparing to fire-off their daughters. Everything else must come second to that vast expense.

  Yet the room Miss Verlyn entered was beautifully appointed. It was a suite, because beyond the antechamber, two bedrooms were separated by a large dressing room. All were painted pale pink. At Miss Ve
rlyn’s order, servants emerged from the dressing room and began hastily opening windows to let a fresh breeze into the rooms. The furniture was well cared for mahogany to match the wood around the windows that swept up from the floor almost to the ceiling. Sunlight flooded in, dancing through the dust motes.

  “I am sorry the room is not properly aired,” Miss Verlyn said.

  “Nonsense!” Priscilla smiled. “We arrived unannounced, and we appreciate your kindness.” It was not quite the truth. She was startled that Lady Rossington had not sent servants to tend to such matters as soon as they arrived. She reminded herself of how empty-headed the lady and her other five daughters acted. Almost as empty-headed as the lord himself.

  As if Priscilla had spoken aloud, Miss Verlyn said, “Mother would have checked the rooms herself, if she were not so busy with arranging for Jessie and me to go to Town.”

  Hoping that the girl had not discerned the rest of her thoughts, Priscilla said, “I understand that all too well. My older daughter has attended a few events during this past Season, and I know how tiresome all the details can be.”

  “Dreadful.” She rubbed her hands against her riding habit. “That is why I need to escape sometimes, even though Mama always has a crise de nerfs when she learns I have been out riding on my own.”

  “She is right to be worried.”

  “I seldom wander off our lands, and I know them well. There are fewer things here to worry about than in London.”

  “True.” Priscilla patted the girl’s arm sympathetically. “Don’t fret. By the time you arrive in Town, you will be so busy that you can leave the worrying to your mother and father.”

  “I have no interest in going to Town and being displayed like wares in the village market.”

  “There are other things to do than flirtations and courtships.”

  “Not according to Mama.” She sighed. “I offered to come up here with you because I wanted to let you know how pleased I am that you and Sir Neville were not injured during the attack on your carriage.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled gently. “Just as we are glad that you were unhurt by your encounter with the highwayman.”

  Miss Verlyn’s face blanched. “I wish I could forget that ever happened.”

  “You will as long as you recall that nothing important was taken from you.”

  “Save our sense of security.”

  Priscilla nodded. “I understand, but that sense of security was a false one. Traveling country roads and lanes has never been safe. Even Chaucer’s pilgrims on the way to Canterbury traveled together to protect themselves from thieves and cut-purses.”

  “But that was ages ago. These are modern times, and we should be able to travel from here to a nearby village without having to worry about our well-being.”

  “We should.”

  Miss Verlyn’s green eyes snapped with jade sparks. “Attacks on good and decent people continue while those low creatures elude capture. If those monstrously wicked cabbage-heads put half as much effort into an honest day’s labor as they did into larceny—”

  Agatha cleared her throat, and Priscilla glanced in her direction, as Miss Verlyn did. Hoping the younger woman did not see Agatha’s barely concealed rage at the insults, Priscilla prattled—something she despised in others as well as herself—about the wonderful events Miss Verlyn would enjoy in Town.

  Miss Verlyn suddenly glanced toward the door. She told Priscilla to ring the bell on the table in the center of the room if she needed anything, and then she rushed out of the room.

  “An odd girl, that one,” came a familiar voice from behind Priscilla.

  Turning, she saw Lilabet walking out of the dressing room. “What are you doing here?”

  “I am the housekeeper here,” she replied with the perfect accent for an upper servant. “Mrs. Betts.” She peered over her shoulder. “I am sorry the girls are still working here, Lady Priscilla.”

  Knowing that Lilabet—or Mrs. Betts, as she called herself now—had not been alone in the dressing room, Priscilla said, “As I told Miss Verlyn, there is no need for any sort of apology.”

  “I remembered we had stored some castoff clothing in this dressing room, Lady Priscilla. I wanted to remove it.” Her nose wrinkled. “Old, dirty clothing reeks. All the windows in your rooms have been opened so the space will be properly aired.”

  “Thank you. However, I am tired, and I have been looking forward to a chance to rest.” She paused as she met Mrs. Betts’s eyes steadily. She wanted to ask who Mrs. Betts truly was—the housekeeper or the thief—but added only, “Looking forward to resting quietly.”

  “Of course, my lady.” Clapping her hands, she ordered the serving girls to leave and return once Priscilla had her chance to rest. As soon as the door closed in their wake, she turned, the façade of prim housekeeper falling away. “You two.” She pointed to Edgar and Agatha. “Go in there and get the last of the fousty clothes. Take them downstairs to the kitchen and have them tossed into the laundry.”

  “Now see ’ere—” began Edgar.

  “Do as I say, and stop sounding like a Bristol man. You have to convince everyone that you are a gentleman’s servant, who thinks first and foremost of his employer’s comfort.” She shook her head. “I have no idea why Cross chose you two. I could have arranged for someone here to watch over Neville and his lady with far less chance of the truth being uncovered.”

  Edgar stuck out his chest. “I was sent coz I be fine enough to be a gentleman’s master.”

  Mrs. Betts laughed icily. “That may be a name all you highwaymen have anointed yourself with, but now you have a chance to prove it. Don’t make a muddle of it.” She held up a finger as Agatha began to speak. “Off with you, and do as you are told. I will keep a close eye on the lady. Neville will not leave without her, so you need not worry about him.” She snorted as crudely as Lord Rossington had and scowled at Edgar. “Not that you seem too bothered about keeping him in your sights.”

  “Didn’t want t’stay in a room with the mewling constable,” muttered Edgar. “Not like that Miss Verlyn who was all agog when ’e walked in.”

  “’er?” interjected Agatha. “The constable was all blushin’ and slobberin’ about like a pup when ’e looked in ’er direction.”

  Mrs. Betts said, “Enough idle talk, you two. Do as I requested.”

  “We are not yer servants,” Agatha replied.

  “No, you are serving the lady and her husband. If you do not want to be thrown out of the house by having the truth discovered before your first hour here is up, do as I ask. After all, I am not asking you to do anything but carry some laundry down the stairs. If anyone stops you, just say you are helping Mrs. Betts clean Lady Priscilla’s chambers.”

  Priscilla did not realize she was holding her breath, uncertain if the two thieves would obey, until they relented and went into the dressing room. She began to speak, but Mrs. Betts waved her to silence until the two emerged.

  Warning them not to touch anything in her house, Mrs. Betts closed the door behind them. She motioned for Priscilla to sit next to one of the large windows.

  Priscilla gratefully sank onto the dark pink fabric, letting the chair cushion her. She longed to lean her head back and seek the sleep that had eluded her last night. So many questions; too few answers.

  “Why are you working here at the same time you are there?” she asked, taking care not to mention the highwaymen’s sanctuary.

  Mrs. Betts sat facing her. “The answer is simple. My family is there. My job is here.”

  “Your family?”

  “At first, it was my husband who joined.” She smiled sadly. “Mr. Betts was not pleased to have his wife support him, so he decided to travel the road. That is, he became a highwayman like his brother Marlin Cross.”

  “Mr. Cross is—”

 
; “My nephew. He is the only one of my late husband’s line who has eluded the hangman, so I watch out for him, hoping I will not lose him as I did the others. Unlike your husband, my nephew cannot resist the lure of quick money and adventure. He stays, and so do I.” She rubbed her hands together. “You need only say a single word to his lordship or Lady Rossington, and I will turned be off without a letter of recommendation.”

  “Mrs. Betts, you know nothing of me other than I married Neville.”

  “Which speaks highly of your intelligence.”

  “Yes, it does.” She allowed herself a smile. “What you may not know is that my first husband was a pastor. I learned much from him, but the most important lesson is not to judge everyone by the standards I was raised to believe are best.”

  “Thank you for understanding, my lady.”

  Standing as Mrs. Betts did, Priscilla said, “I am very impressed with how well you fit in both here and . . . there.” She warned herself to be careful what she revealed, not knowing if the other servants made a habit of listening at keyholes.

  “It is my life.”

  “I understand.” She hesitated, then asked, “How long have you known Neville?”

  “He was brought into our group when he was not much more than a lad.” Her eyes twinkled with sudden merriment as she leaned toward Priscilla and lowered her voice so no one else could hear. “What determination he had to be the best at whatever he did, whether it was acting as a cruiser and watching for potential coaches to halt or simply staying behind to guard a highwayman’s retreat with his stolen prize. My husband always said that young Neville Hathaway was destined for a grand future. I doubt any of us could have imagined he would become what he has, but one thing remains the same. He still tries to be the best at what he does, even when it plays him into my nephew’s hands.”

  The sound of carriage wheels reached through the windows into the room. Priscilla glanced out and gasped when she saw their carriage driving away. She did not recognize the man on the box, driving the carriage at top speed. She rose, but Mrs. Betts put a hand on her arm.