Neville could tell by Priscilla’s strained tone that she was not being honest.
Hope bloomed on Lady Rossington’s face, erasing the lines left by fear. “I am so glad to hear that. Dr. Crawford would not answer my questions while we waited for her to arrive. He sent me back down here to wait. How could he do that?” She flung out her hands so wildly that Priscilla had to duck. “I am her mother. He should have told me!”
“He needed to examine her first.”
“But she has fallen from her horse before.”
Neville kept his most placid expression in place when Lady Rossington looked at him. Clasping his hands behind his back, he said, “It may be a bit more than a simple fall.”
“Nonsense. She fell all the time when she was learning to ride.”
“Astride?”
“My daughters do not ride in such an uncomely manner!”
Was she oblivious to what had happened, or was she trying to betwattle herself and everyone else in the hope that if she ignored the truth it would all come to rights?
“Of course not,” Priscilla said, firing him a warning glare. “But Miss Verlyn has been hurt, and it might be better if we wait in the outer room so that the doctor can complete his examination.” She put a hand under the lady’s elbow and brought them both to their feet. “Shall we ask Mrs. Betts to send for some tea while we await the doctor’s diagnosis?”
Lady Rossington faltered as if good sense fought with her delusions; then she nodded. “That sounds lovely. Will you join us, Sir Neville?”
He was astonished by her commonplace question, and he was saved from having to reply when the doctor came toward them.
“My lady,” Dr. Crawford said, “I am pleased to tell you that your daughter will recover. She is a very lucky young woman. Not many people survive such a close encounter with a ball.”
“A ball? My daughter was shot?” Lady Rossington swooned.
Neville caught her before she could fall to the floor. Setting her onto the window seat, he took advantage of the cries of dismay from Miss Verlyn’s sisters to murmur, “Pris, I need to leave for a while. Will you be able to handle this?” It was another silly question. He had seen her deal with far more difficult situations, although he was not sure if any more bizarre.
“Certainly,” she said, picking up a blanket from the foot of the bed and draping it over the senseless lady. “Can you tell me where you are going?”
“To get some answers.” He lowered his voice. “Tell them I went to get some air and think through what has happened.”
“And you will share what you discover as soon as you can?”
“You know I want to share everything with you, sweetheart.” That was the worst thing he could have said because her eyes glowed with the need that was sharpened with every passing hour that they could not be alone in their marital bed.
It was going to be a long night without her in his arms, but he hoped by dawn, he would have the information he needed to put an end to this travesty of a honeymoon and make it a true one.
Chapter Eleven
LADY ROSSINGTON regained her senses within minutes after Neville had taken his leave. Or more accurately, Priscilla thought, she regained consciousness. Any good sense seemed to have vacated the baroness’s head. Hysterical tears and shrieks battered everyone’s ears and even woke Miss Verlyn.
After allowing the lady enough time to see that her daughter was alive, Priscilla asked Mrs. Betts to escort the lady to her private rooms where she could recover.
“No,” Lady Rossington said. “I cannot leave until I give you a message.”
“Me?” asked Priscilla. “From whom?”
“Your aunt. I sent a rider toward London with a message to your aunt that you and Sir Neville were unharmed.”
Priscilla forced her hands not to clench in frustrated fists by her side. “That was unnecessary, Lady Rossington.”
“Nonsense.” A ghost of a smile flitted across her lips. “You shall be delighted to hear that the messenger delivered the message to your aunt who was only a short distance from here. She should be arriving with your children on the morrow.”
“Here?” choked Priscilla. Was Lady Rossington mad to bring Priscilla’s family into the middle of murder?
“No need to thank me, my dear. I know they will be so pleased to see you and Sir Neville are fine.”
Priscilla tossed aside propriety and ordered, “Send another messenger. Stop my family from coming here! Tell them we will meet them as planned.”
“I cannot send someone out at this hour.” Lady Rossington regarded Priscilla as if she had taken a knock in the head. “The highwaymen are on the prowl. Do not worry. Your aunt is a smart woman. She will not travel after dark. If she had, she would have been here by now.”
Priscilla sank to sit on a bench. Could this situation grow any worse? She could not warn her aunt and children to stay away. Nor could Neville. Edgar and Agatha would see to that.
“No need,” Lady Rossington continued in her oblivious way, “to thank me when your family arrives and is relieved to find you and your husband well. It was the very least I could do after all you have endured.”
It took every ounce of Priscilla’s self-control not to jump up and shriek at her hostess. Lady Rossington had good intentions, but how many times had Lazarus preached on where good intentions could take one?
Lady Rossington leaned forward to give Priscilla a hug and almost toppled on her nose. Priscilla grabbed one arm and Mrs. Betts the other to keep the lady on her feet.
The housekeeper gave Priscilla a sympathetic glance before saying, “Agatha, help me with Lady Rossington and her daughters.”
A stricken expression widened Agatha’s eyes. To obey meant leaving Priscilla’s side, failing to follow Cross’s orders; not to obey would draw unwanted attention to her.
“Mrs. Betts,” she said, her tone almost as distressed as the baroness’s, “Lady Priscilla needs—”
“She needs to understand that I need your help.”
Priscilla remained silent. What sort of person did Agatha believe her to be? Did Agatha think she would use the night’s tragedy to flee? While Mrs. Betts and Agatha helped Lady Rossington from the room, Priscilla stood to one side. Miss Verlyn’s sisters followed their mother like a line of ducklings, all clucking in dismay. Priscilla waited until they were partway down the passage before closing the door. She gave Miss Verlyn’s maid and two other serving lasses instructions to heed the doctor’s requests, then glanced into Miss Verlyn’s room.
The doctor nodded with a relieved expression. She glanced from him to the bed where the young woman slept.
Dr. Crawford came around the bed. “She is resting now, and you should as well, my lady. ’Twas good you kept your head about you tonight.”
“I would be happy to stay and help.” She said the words automatically, because the only thing she truly wanted to do was find Neville and explain what Lady Rossington had done. He might have an idea of how to prevent Aunt Cordelia and the children from changing their itinerary.
“I am sure Lady Rossington will be glad for your help on the morrow, but you need to rest. Miss Verlyn will be fine in a few days.”
His gaze slipped along her, and she looked down, startled to see bloodstains on her gown. No one had mentioned that, and she guessed they had not wanted to upset her. She almost laughed. Dried blood was nowhere near as distressing as Miss Verlyn’s fresh blood had been. Even so, she knew the sight of her would upset the household. She picked up a spare blanket and drew it around her. Bidding the doctor good night, she left.
Priscilla had taken only a pair of steps beyond the door when she was almost run down by a man rushing toward it.
“Constable Kenyon!” She put up her hands. “Slow down! You cannot burst into Miss Verlyn’s private chamber.�
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Color flashed up his face. “But she has been shot! Why worry about her reputation when she has been shot?”
“It matters because she is going to survive. The bullet raked her scalp, but did no other damage. The doctor expects a complete recovery.”
His shoulders sagged as if he had dropped a huge burden. He turned slightly and rubbed at his face.
She wanted to tell him that a man weeping at good news would not bother her a bit. She refrained, for that would embarrass him further.
But she had to ask the question that haunted her. “Constable, do you know why Miss Verlyn would be riding after dark? Alone?”
“She is headstrong, my lady.” He faced her, but seemed to be fascinated by his boots.
“So I have seen, but that does not explain why she would have used a man’s saddle.”
His head jerked up, and she saw his eyes flash with powerful emotions before he looked at the floor again. “A man’s saddle? You know that makes no sense, my lady.”
“Which is why I am asking you. You are her . . .” She paused to select the description that would not cause more trouble if someone overheard them. “You are her good friend. Has she acted so out of hand before?”
What he might have replied went unsaid because Lord Rossington strode toward them. Priscilla was tempted to ask the baron where he had been while his daughter was brought, bleeding, to the house. The strong scent of brandy billowed from him, and she guessed he had not been able to face the truth without spirits to bolster him.
“Verlyn?” he asked bluntly.
“She will be fine,” she answered with a gentle smile. “The ball barely touched her. A few stitches, a few days of rest, and, according to Dr. Crawford, she will be in fine feather.”
“Jolly good.” He clapped the constable on the back, rocking the younger man forward almost into Priscilla, who retreated and bumped into a table. The half-foxed baron ignored the reaction he had caused. “I trust you will find the peter-gunner who fired on my daughter.”
“I will endeavor to do so, my lord.” The constable’s face reddened, but his voice was sincere. “I will have no higher priority until the shooter is found.”
“I trust you will. You are doing a fine job, Kenyon. Far better than I would have imagined at the beginning of your term as constable.”
“Thank you, my lord.” His face grew a brighter red.
“But you know that there is no resting on your laurels until the threat of highwaymen is past.”
“No one knows that better than I do.”
“Good! But just remember that the circumstances call for a good, old-fashioned hanging. Don’t let the cur escape the rightful scales of justice by dying before we can see him fitted with a noose.” Lord Rossington flicked his fingers to dismiss the constable. “Off with you and do your duty.”
“Miss Verlyn—“
“Will appreciate that you have rid the shire of these vermin.”
Priscilla wondered if she had ever appreciated the term crestfallen before she saw the constable’s face. She said nothing as the constable turned and walked toward the stairs. When Lord Rossington opened the door to Miss Verlyn’s room, he entered, and she was left alone in the hallway.
Alone . . . it seemed so odd. During the preparations for the wedding, then the celebration, and now the disrupted honeymoon, she had been surrounded by people. She had yearned for a few moments to herself, but now she did not want to be alone. She wrapped the blanket more tightly around herself as she walked toward the chambers she and Neville had been given. She wished Neville held her instead.
No footfalls matched hers along the corridor. In a house with so many people, it was bizarre to be enveloped in such silence. She could understand why people believed in ghosts because the only noise was the faint creak of the house relaxing in the cool evening air. The sound could have been some spirit seeking to find its way back into the house.
“Stop being fanciful,” she ordered herself. Not enough sleep and too much worry must not bamboozle her. The doctor was right. She needed to rest after she had changed out of the bloodstained gown.
Even knowing the advice was sage did not help Priscilla rest. She drew on her nightgown and dressing robe and sat in a chair and tried to read. That was impossible. The words were unintelligible to her eyes. Stretching out on the bed had been as futile. She tossed and turned and plumped the pillows, but to no avail.
She had expected Agatha to return quickly. Mrs. Betts must be keeping her busy. Why? So Priscilla could slip away and chase after Neville? No, the housekeeper knew Priscilla would not be so foolish. Miss Verlyn’s wounding was enough to keep everyone behind the house’s walls tonight. Mayhap that was why Mrs. Betts had insisted that Agatha come with her to “help” with Lady Rossington. The housekeeper feared Agatha would do something beef-headed, like following Neville and Edgar.
These brave, reckless highwaymen were terrified. And why not? Someone was killing them, but why would that murderer shoot at Miss Verlyn? If she had that answer, she guessed she would understand why the highwaymen were being hunted.
Pacing from the bedchamber to the main room and back seemed to slow the passage of time. As she passed the mantel clock, she looked at it. The hands appeared frozen at close to midnight. Neville had left almost two hours before. How much longer would he be gone?
She went to the balcony doors and threw them open, so she could step outside. Leaning on the stone railing, she gazed out into the night. She wanted to be fearful for all those riding through the night, but her heart was focused on one person. Neville had had that determined light in his eyes as he bid her adieu. She suspected she knew where he was bound, and she hoped this would not be the time that Mr. Cross earned anew his nickname of “Double Cross.”
Chapter Twelve
IF SOMEONE HAD told him two days ago that he would spend the past two nights skulking through the woods instead of being with his new wife, holding her close, tasting her sweet skin, hearing her gasps of passion in harmony with his own, Neville would have guffawed. Yet that was exactly what he was doing. Walking amidst the trees, leading his horse with Edgar and his mount following. There was just enough moonlight to create strange and misleading shadows beneath the trees. A swift, silent motion overhead was an owl while bats were visible in the clearings, darting after insects too small for him to see. Noises from the underbrush could have been any sort of beast fleeing from the owl or from Neville and Edgar.
Or whoever else might be lurking amongst the trees.
Pausing, Neville strained his ears. Yes! Something moved toward them. Not a forest creature, but whoever had been on a parallel path through the trees. Neville had called out once, receiving no answer. That had told him the person would appear when he or she chose.
“Stoppin’ ’ere?” asked Edgar as he tiptoed closer.
Neville waved him to silence before hissing, “Stay quiet, fool! How have you survived this long if you don’t realize that we are being stalked?”
Edgar’s gulp was so loud it sounded like thunder. The thief said nothing when Neville motioned for him to follow.
Ahead, faint light glittered off something with a splash of silver. A brook, Neville noted, as his fingertips brushed the gun he had put under his coat. Borrowed from Rossington’s collection, it was ready, and so was he. He looked over his shoulder and wondered if this stream fed the pond in the water garden. If so, the person trailing them could have used it as a route through the wood. Clever, because the tracker would leave no tracks.
He put up his hand as a shadow moved between them and the reflected moonlight, but Edgar already had come to a halt. Glad the dark hid his expression, Neville wondered why he had never noticed that the highwayman was unwilling to risk his skin by taking the lead. Edgar was glad to let Neville shield him from whomever stood on the bank.
The shadow stepped from beneath the trees and put his hand on Edgar’s arm.
Edgar swore before crying, “Cross! Wot are ye doin’ ’ere?”
The highwayman ignored him. Instead he fired a question at Neville. “Where have ye been?”
Neville did not answer the question. “How is Stuttman?”
Cross smiled icily. “He is not happy, but he will stay alive as long as ye do as I tell ye. I thought we were to meet by the hermit’s cave tonight.”
“As you well know, we were there, just as you requested.”
“And brought along Rossington’s wife and daughters.”
“That was a chance encounter, and we sent them on their way. But then we were distracted by the bloody cloth.”
“Bloody cloth?” Cross’s eyes narrowed. “Wot are ye blitherin’ about?”
Neville gave him a condensed version of the night’s events. He was surprised that Cross asked no questions. Was it because Cross knew about the events already? Or could it be as simple as he did not give a rap about Rossington’s family? There was only one way to find out. Ask.
So he did. “What do you know about this, Cross?”
“Me? Why would I know anythin’ about it?”
“Someone shot Miss Verlyn, Rossington’s youngest.” He hesitated, then realized he had to be honest with the thief if he expected Cross to be the same with him. “The one the constable has a calf-love for.”
“I did not fire at a woman! I never have.” Cross sounded offended.
“Do not waste my time with false protests! You took aim at my wife.” Neville knew the thief would steal as readily from a woman as a man, and if getting something of value required him to fire his gun, he would not hesitate.
“Not false. I did not fire at a woman, not even yer wife.” He grinned. “At least I did not fire at one tonight. But, I have to say, if ye don’t find the truth I seek, yer new wife will make a fine target.”
“You were on the baron’s lands, Cross. Where Miss Verlyn presumably was shot.”
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