Gentleman's Master

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “My nephew does not let any detail slip past him,” the housekeeper said. “He will have sent someone to take both your carriage and your driver.”

  “I must let Neville know. He will want to go after Stuttman.”

  “He must not. Your coachee will not be harmed.”

  “Unless we try to free him.” Priscilla’s hands clenched at her side. “This way, we cannot leave without a big to-do.”

  Mrs. Betts sighed. “I tried to talk Roland into changing his mind about his ultimatum. He refuses.”

  “It hardly matters until we find the murderer.” It was her turn to sigh as she sat again. “I wish we could have taken time to go to the site of the most recent murder.”

  “The body was removed last night.”

  “No, the latest.” She explained the bad news the lad had brought to the inn that morning.

  Mrs. Betts’s face lost all color, and she sank back onto the chair. “Did he say who?”

  “Georges.”

  “Oh, my.” She hid her face in her hands, then lowered them slowly. “What a shame! He was a good man. Much like Sir Neville, he came from the peerage. In his case, a froggish one because his parents had to flee the guillotine in France. He had a politeness that even a criminal life could not batter out of him. He was a voice of sanity when my nephew was in a bad skin and inciting the Order to foolishness that would leave everyone dead or transported.”

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Betts, to bring you such sad news.” She put a consoling hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “Please know that both Neville and I intend to do all in our power to discover who is responsible for these murders.”

  “Fine talk,” came Edgar’s mutter as he and Agatha came back into the room. His nose wrinkled, then he yawned. “I need nine winks.” He pointed to the door to the left. “There?”

  Mrs. Betts came to her feet, once more the housekeeper of a baron’s house. “Edgar, you should not forget that the gentleman’s manservant sleeps in the small room on the far side of the gentleman’s bedchamber. You will find a pallet in there for you.”

  Edgar started to protest, but halted at a glower from the housekeeper. He slunk away and slammed the door to the valet’s room behind him so hard that the whole room shook.

  “What is wrong with him?” Mrs. Betts demanded.

  Agatha crossed her arms and aimed a belligerent frown at Priscilla and the housekeeper. “’e suffers from sullens caused by that uppity Miss Verlyn.”

  “Miss Verlyn?” repeated Priscilla in astonishment. “She is a sweet-natured young woman.”

  “Did ye ’ear ’er? She called us ‘monstrously wicked cabbage-’eads.’ She ’as no right to speak so.”

  “She has every right,” Priscilla said. “This is her home, and she can air her opinions as she wishes. You know you would not find welcome here if anyone discovered the truth, so spare me your wounded sensibilities.”

  Agatha huffed and walked to a nearby chair. As she started to sit, Priscilla called her name.

  “A companion sits in the corner.” Priscilla pointed to a chair by the wardrobe. “If you wish to be accepted in that role, you should remember its restrictions, just as Edgar must respect his limitations as a valet. Companions are expected never to be close to the center of any group or participate unless specifically asked.”

  “No need to act all ’igh-and-mighty, m’lady. I may not know wot a companion should do, but ye would be wise to teach me. If I am thrown out of the ’ouse, Cross will ’ush ye before ye ’ave time to make a single squeak.”

  “Enough of such talk,” said Neville as he walked into the room. With each word, his voice deepened into a more fearsome growl. His footfalls were light as he walked toward Agatha, but she recoiled as if he thundered across the chamber. “Your threats will gain you nothing. If you have failed to see the truth, then let me enlighten you. Lady Priscilla was honest when she expressed her dismay at the deaths of the highwaymen. She has offered to help you.”

  “She is a fine lady. Wot does she know of us?”

  “I agree.” He paused in front of Agatha and clasped his hands behind his back, his pose that of a teacher with a wayward student. “She is probably the finest woman you will ever meet. Not because of her birth, but because of her heart. She insisted on coming with me to meet with Cross. She could have stayed at the inn, but she wanted to help ease my grief at Watson’s loss. Instead of looking up your nose at her, you should be thanking her for helping the lot of you.”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “You should apologize,” he said in the same cold tone.

  Priscilla interjected, “No apology is necessary, as long as Agatha and Edgar accept that we share their hope of finding this murderer and halting the killings.”

  Agatha muttered something, and Priscilla hoped she would not take on Edgar’s bad habit. It did not sound like an agreement or an apology, but her bluster had vanished. Priscilla decided that was the best she could expect.

  A rap came from the door, and Mrs. Betts went to it. Neville stared at her in disbelief, but said nothing when Priscilla put her finger to her lips to warn him to silence.

  Opening the door, the housekeeper told the servants carrying luggage from the carriage to enter. She stepped aside and said, “Agatha, you may help the others arrange in the dressing room what Lady Priscilla will need tonight.”

  Taking a step to obey, Agatha faltered. She glanced from the maids, who seemed astonished at her hesitation, to Priscilla. Her hands opened and closed quickly at her sides, then her left one went to her waist. That motion confirmed what Priscilla had suspected from the beginning. Agatha carried some sort of weapon there.

  Before the woman could do something out of hand, Mrs. Betts said, “Let me show you about.” She herded Agatha and the other servants ahead of her. She shut the dressing room door after them.

  Neville glanced around the room, took Priscilla by the hand, and led her to one set of windows. A small balcony was visible beyond the glass. The doors squeaked as he opened them.

  “That is good,” she said. “No one will be able to sneak in unheard.”

  “You may have as many enemies within the room as outside.” He clasped his hands behind him again and walked out to survey the narrow stone balcony that offered a view of the garden and the hill running down to a stream in the distance. Coming back inside, he closed the doors.

  “If you are looking for the carriage, it is gone,” she said.

  “What?” His eyes narrowed as she explained. “By all that’s blue, Pris. Cross stays one step ahead of us at every turn.”

  “So we must change that.”

  He did not smile as she had hoped. “Be careful, Pris. Neither Edgar nor Agatha have any interest in keeping you alive. After what she said—“

  “It is of no consequence, Neville.” She walked to him and locked her fingers together behind his nape. Leaning into his sturdy strength, she fought the yearning to forget everything else and simply savor his firm lines. “Agatha was distressed by Miss Verlyn’s insulting words about highwaymen.”

  “The truth can be difficult to hear.”

  She laughed. “When did you decide to speak in trite phrases?”

  “Since I saw an unexpected face in our rooms.”

  “Lilabet . . . Mrs. Betts.”

  “Is that what she is calling herself? What is she doing here? She was never a lully-prigger.”

  “In English, Neville, if you please.”

  He smiled and tapped her nose. “That was English, sweetheart.”

  “The King’s English then.”

  “A lully-prigger is someone who steals bedding.” He frowned as he glanced at the dressing room door. “Did she come to bring Agatha and Edgar more instructions?”

  “No, she is Lord Rossington’s housekeeper.”r />
  “What?” He pulled back in astonishment. “You are hoaxing me! I know she used to work in the kitchens of some public houses, but never on an estate.”

  “No, I am telling you the truth.” She pointed to the dressing room door. “Ask her yourself if you don’t believe me.”

  He opened the dressing room door. “Well, look who has come to call, Pris.”

  Mrs. Betts pushed past him. She glanced back at the maids gathered in the dressing room.

  “On the balcony?” Neville asked.

  The housekeeper nodded, then led the way. Her face was grim when they followed her outside and closed the door.

  “Lilabet—” he began.

  “You should call her ‘Mrs. Betts’ here,” Priscilla said quietly. “No one will hear us here, but bad habits are easy to begin and hard to break.”

  Neville rested his elbow on the balcony’s thick stone rail. “I stand corrected. Why didn’t you mention that you work for Rossington?”

  “I find it wise to keep my life here and my life there separated.” She smiled coolly. “As I suspect you have learned to do as well. I trust, from her reactions, that you have not shared everything about your past with your new wife.”

  “She knows about my past.” He did not give either the housekeeper or Priscilla a chance to say anything else. “However, if you have been here all along, Mrs. Betts, why did Cross insist on his spies watching us?”

  “The world does not revolve around you, my dear nug.” She patted his cheek, as she had at the church. “Roland knows that I have other matters on my mind here than you and the lady.”

  “And you being here is very convenient for him.”

  “How so?”

  “With someone killing highwayman, he can take his thievery indoors by sending Agatha and Edgar to find out what is valuable in this house.”

  The housekeeper straightened and scowled. “I would not allow them to do that.”

  “What you will allow may not make a bit of difference.”

  “I will talk with them.”

  “Will they listen to you? If they are upon the sneak here, I will be so busy watching out for what they might take that it could keep us from finding the murderer.”

  “I will make them listen. If things of value go missing, I could be sacked. I have worked hard to get this position.”

  Priscilla said quietly, “Thank you, Mrs. Betts. In a perfect situation, we would agree we have the same goal. To stop this person we seek.” She gave Neville a quick smile as she repeated his words. “But I am not sure that your nephew truly has the same goal. If he is using this opportunity to profit, everyone could lose.”

  “Very true.”

  “It will not be easy,” Priscilla went on, “to keep Agatha and Edgar from nabbing the snow while we search.”

  Neville laughed as Mrs. Betts’s eyes grew round. Priscilla smiled serenely at their astonishment with her knowledge of low slang for making off with linens.

  “Shame on you, my lady,” he said with another laugh. “I have heard you scold your son for less offensive language.”

  Mrs. Betts turned to Neville. “I can see why you married her. You are a matched set.” She winked, then nodded. “All right. I shall do my best. On my oath as a member of the Order.”

  “That is good enough for me,” Neville said as he opened the door into the suite. “I am not sure who has the more impossible task. You or Lady Priscilla and me.”

  Chapter Eight

  “LOVELY,” WAS Neville pronouncement when the bedchamber door opened.

  Priscilla smiled and took the hand he held out to her, letting him draw her near. She had selected her second best dress, a lovely pale green silk, to wear to tea with the Rossingtons. Agatha had been all thumbs at helping her dress, so she wore her hair in a simple twist. “Are you speaking of me or yourself?”

  “I have to say that Edgar—under a very watchful eye—got the wrinkles out of my clothes.” He gave a tug on the lapels of the jacket he had worn for their wedding. His waistcoat was almost the identical shade of her gown, and his breeches were a sedate black.

  “Your watchful eye?”

  “No, Lord Rossington’s fearsome housekeeper.” Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it lightly.

  Luscious warmth exploded through her, and she raised his hand to her cheek. Closing her eyes, she leaned against it.

  “Pris . . .” His voice was barely more than a whisper, but it said everything she wanted to hear.

  Raising her head, she met his mouth with her own eager one. His arms around her, holding her to his array of muscles, tightened as he deepened the kiss until she breathed in tempo with him. She wondered if even their heartbeats were in the same rhythm, racing with the thrill of being in each other’s arms.

  “What do you think of Sir Neville?” The woman’s voice was so loud it sounded as if she stood in the room.

  “Who the blazes?” Neville released her and looked around, perplexed.

  “He seems to be a decent sort in spite of his reputation.” The man’s answer came from the direction of the open balcony doors.

  “Reputation?” the woman asked.

  “Nothing that should be repeated in the presence of your gentle ears.”

  Priscilla inched toward the door, intending to close it. Eavesdropping, especially when the topic was her and Neville, seemed below reproach. As she reached for the door, Neville put his hand on it and shook his head. She frowned as he slipped past her onto the balcony.

  She planned to step away, but paused when the man said, “The lady seems somewhat bird-witted at times, I must say.”

  Who was calling her bird-witted? She endured such comments from her aunt, because Aunt Cordelia was family, but to have others think so of her . . . She edged out. When Neville grinned from where he stood in the lengthening shadows, she pretended not to see. She did not want to give him the pleasure of teasing her that she could take the high road when they spoke of him, but was not so incorruptible when she was the subject.

  “Really? I did not get that impression at all from our brief conversation,” came back the woman’s voice.

  Priscilla put her hand over her mouth as a quick glance over the side of the balcony revealed who stood on the terrace beneath it. In the late afternoon sunshine, Miss Verlyn and Constable Kenyon were talking. No, talking was hardly the right description when Miss Verlyn stood with her hands on her hips, her chin jutted out, and her nose only inches from the constable’s. The young man had his hands up, not quite touching her, but so close a breeze would have had difficulty passing between his palms and her bodice. Not that either seemed to notice their untoward proximity. They were clearly at odds.

  “Enough talk about them,” Miss Verlyn said. “I want to speak about you.”

  “I know what you are about to say.” He brushed a strand of her hair back with obvious affection.

  “Do you? You need to speak up for yourself, Randell. If you continue to allow Father and Mr. Goodman to walk over you, how will you gain the reputation we both know you are worthy of?”

  “The justice of the peace is aware of my work.”

  “Which Mr. Goodman claims as his own when you are successful and which he loudly chides you for when you are not. But the justice of the peace is not the one you need to impress. My father has no idea what you do to keep us safe.”

  The constable hung his head, taking a step away from her. Shame dripped from his words as he said, “I failed you the night the highwayman stopped your carriage.”

  “But don’t you see? This is your best chance to gain the renown you deserve.”

  “By capturing the highwaymen and sending them to hang?” He laughed sharply. “Mayhap you would prefer me to chase down this ghost that seems to be better at putting an end to the thieves than I am.
”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Who cares about that person who is helping you in your quest? If you can make the roads safe to travel, no one will deny you your rightful respect.”

  “True.” He turned to face her, and Priscilla froze, not wanting a single motion to disclose their eavesdropping. “We should be grateful to anyone who puts an end to highwaymen. Yet, no one will give me my due until they see thieves dangling from the gallows.”

  “Another reason to hurry. If you don’t, there may be no highwaymen left to capture.”

  “A shame.”

  “Yes.” Miss Verlyn closed the distance between them again. “It would be a shame, Randell, because then I will have no choice but to go to Town and endure the attentions of other men. Men my parents would gladly give permission to court and wed me. How could I endure marrying anyone other than you?”

  “I will redouble my efforts.” He took her hands and pressed one, then the other to his lips. “I vow that, Verlyn, on my heart that is filled with love for you.”

  Beside Priscilla, Neville choked back what might have been a laugh or a curse. She guessed it was the former because he found such earnest assertions from eager young swains amusing.

  She took his arm and drew him back through the doorway as Constable Kenyon, bidding Miss Verlyn a good evening, began walking toward the far end of the terrace. If the constable looked up, he might espy them standing on the balcony.

  As soon as she closed the door, a guffaw burst from Neville. He collapsed in the closest chair. Putting his hand over his heart, he said, “I vow that, Verlyn, on my heart that is filled with love for you.”

  Priscilla walked over to him and gave him a cool glare. “Why are you making a jest of something that must have thrilled that young woman?”

  “Oh, Pris, he sounded like the benighted hero of a poorly written play.” Coming to his feet, he struck a pose and stretched out his arm as if to encompass the whole world. “I vow that, Verlyn, on my heart that is filled with love for you.”

  She slapped his arm. “Save emoting for your next performance in the theater.”