Gentleman's Master

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Neville silenced his vexation that the two thieves had been doing the pretty while he had been distracted by whoever was sneaking through the garden. For a moment—just a quick moment—he considered sending Edgar and Agatha out to follow the skulkers while he and Priscilla remained in the room. Alone. Together.

  “Let’s go,” he ordered, his tone emotionless.

  Priscilla squeezed his arm in consolation, but for once, her thoughtfulness did not make him feel better. Nothing would do that now except her in their bed.

  “Come on, Edgar,” he snapped when the thief stared at him in astonishment. “Now!”

  “Where?”

  “If I am not wrong, to save one of your own.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  NEVILLE RODE as close as he could to Priscilla. The scent of rain was in the air, making the night feel chillier. Tattered clouds flowed like smoke across the face of the moon.

  Looking across the horses from Rossington’s stable, he appraised Edgar. Mayhap they should have left the highwayman at Rossington Hall with Agatha. Edgar’s hands clutched the reins, and his head swiveled to scan in both directions. He was terrified. And why not? They were trying to run to ground the person who had preyed on highwaymen.

  The sight in the garden of the cloaked figure swinging up to ride on the light colored horse had almost undone Edgar. Only when Agatha offered to ride with them did he regain some semblance of courage. He would not be seen as a coward by the woman he had just held in his arms.

  Neville was glad to have Edgar’s experience and knowledge of the woods. They rode along the twisting road through the dark woods. Their quarry had vanished, and Neville swore under his breath. While he and Priscilla had gone to get horses, Edgar should have spent more time watching where the rider on the light horse was bound instead of looking at the house and blowing kisses to Agatha.

  “Any idea where they might have gone?” Priscilla asked.

  “Crossroads is a quarter mile in that direction.” Edgar pointed to the left. “That be where Old Jimmy goes when ’e is all-set.”

  “Ready to rob someone,” Neville translated for Priscilla.

  She nodded, then said, “Show us the way to where Old Jimmy should be.”

  “And interrupt ’is night’s work?” asked Edgar in disbelief. Before they could answer, he said, “Forget I said that. I know ye want to keep Old Jimmy from bein’ added to the list of dead men.”

  Neville smiled, even though he knew the other man could not see his expression. “I am glad you finally believe that.”

  “Seen wot ye ’ave done for friend and foe alike. If ye’ll do that much fer strangers, wot would ye do to protect each other?” His voice became even more hushed. “And I know what I would do to keep m’Agatha from ’arm.”

  “Good thought.” He motioned along the path. “Lead the way. If Old Jimmy sees you first, there is less chance he will panic and shoot at us.”

  Edgar jumped down from his saddle. “Leave the ’orses ’ere. On foot is better.”

  That made sense to Neville, too. Mounts had been necessary when they had hoped to halt the two people skulking through the gardens of Rossington Hall. Now, when every thief feared stealthy riders, they would only add more terror to the night.

  Once they had secured the horses behind some brush along the path, Neville reached for Priscilla’s hand. She shifted something from her left hand to her right. Her fingers did not tremble as he took them. Was she truly calm or hiding her emotions better than he could?

  “What are you carrying?” he asked.

  “Just some supplies I hope we do not need. Mrs. Betts left the bag in my room after Miss Verlyn was wounded.” When she shuddered, he felt how she stiffened to halt any sign of her fear. “Bandages and a needle and thread for stitches. I hope we have no need for them.”

  “As do I.”

  “Are ye set?” hissed Edgar.

  Keeping Priscilla between him and Edgar, so she was protected front and back, Neville followed them along the path. The moon gave off enough glow to light their way, but hid exposed roots and loose stones. Scents, damp and rotting, came up from around them. The bushes were growing overripe with summer. Branches reached out wet fingers to try to capture them, and briars snagged at their clothes. Edgar grumbled, and Neville guessed that a thorn had dug into bare skin.

  “How far?” he heard Priscilla ask.

  “Not much more. Old Jimmy may be sleepin’, so take care ye don’t wake ’im.”

  Neville nodded and saw Priscilla do the same. Frightening a highwayman could be deadly. Edgar had not said what weapons the old man carried, but Neville guessed Old Jimmy would have at least one gun to force his prey to hand over their valuables.

  The path widened, and they entered a clearing close to the size of the water garden pond. Neville stepped forward to walk next to Priscilla as his gaze swept the glade. Ferns waved in the slight breeze, but he heard no sounds. It was as if, save for them, the whole world slept, barely breathing.

  Then the night exploded.

  A horse neighed. Hoofbeats. Edgar’s shout. A rider on a white horse. Not pure white, because there was a dark area close to the saddle. He had no chance to notice more, save for the rider’s dark cloak flapping over the horse as they careened wildly from among the trees.

  “Neville!” Priscilla screamed.

  Moonlight glinted off a pistol’s barrel. A pistol aimed at them. He reacted with instincts that had not been blunted by his easier life. He shoved Priscilla to the ground. Dropping atop her, he heard the gun fire. The ball struck the tree behind him. Splinters sliced into his scalp. The pain meant he was still alive.

  A second gun fired.

  Not at them. Toward the trees. At a rider on a darker horse. A shout of pain was muted.

  He looked up to see Edgar lowering a pistol. Beyond him, the rider spun the light-colored horse at a near impossible angle. Then both riders were gone.

  Neville did not hesitate. If they could catch them, Priscilla—and the highwaymen—would be safe. Blood ran down his face as he jumped to his feet, and he wiped it away as he ran to where they had left the horses. He heard Priscilla and Edgar racing after him. When he reached for the horse’s reins, the beast shied at the scent of blood, but he threw himself into the saddle. Slapping the reins on the horse’s neck, he rode after the two who had attacked them.

  The wood could shelter the other riders in any pocket of shadow. Could they flush them into the open and unmask them? One was wounded. How badly? Was the injury enough to slow them?

  Suddenly he burst onto the road. He glanced both ways. As he had dreaded, there was no sign of the riders. He turned in the saddle to look at Edgar.

  “Old Jimmy be that way.” He hooked a thumb to the right. “If they went past ’im, ’e would ’ave seen them.”

  “Good idea.” Again Neville motioned for the highwayman to take the lead. Edgar was proving to be a valuable ally, and he was glad Cross had chosen him to help them find Watson’s murderer. “Pris?”

  “Let’s go.” Her voice was taut, but with anger or fear or both, he could not guess.

  Watching both sides of the road for an ambush, Neville followed Priscilla and Edgar. Suddenly he drew in his horse and swung down to the ground. He whistled sharply and saw their heads snap around. He waved for them to come back, then lashed his reins to a bush. He ran to where a crumpled form lay beneath the trees. If he had not been searching so intently, he might have missed the man, too.

  He knelt and put his fingers to the base of the old man’s throat. There was a faint pulse.

  “He is alive,” he said as Priscilla hurried to him, with Edgar on her heels. “Barely.”

  Priscilla pushed Neville aside and drew out the small bag she carried. She opened it and removed a stubby bottle. Uncorking it, she poured liquid onto
a piece of cloth. The strong scent of spirits rose from it.

  She dabbed the cloth against Old Jimmy’s lips. The prone man, who appeared no taller than Priscilla, licked at the liquid and blinked. As she drew out two more pieces of cloth, she instructed Edgar to tilt the man’s head to find where the blood coursing along his filthy shirt came from. An almost identical wound to what Miss Verlyn had suffered sliced across his scalp. Dabbing one cloth against the prone man’s head, she held up the other.

  “Hold it to your wounds, Jimmy,” she said. “And wipe what blood you can off your face.” Again her voice quivered, but she worked with sure efficiency.

  Old Jimmy opened his eyes. He let out a yell, and if he could have, would have jumped up. He tried to sit and collapsed against the ground.

  “’Tis all right, Old Jimmy,” Edgar hurried to say. “These two be our friends.”

  “They be quality,” argued the old man. “Quality ain’t friends.”

  “This be Neville ’athaway and his missus.”

  “’athaway!” Old Jimmy groped out, and Neville took his hand. “Wot are ye doin’ ’ere? I ’eard wot Cross asked ye to do. Why didn’t ye take yer lady and save yer bacon?”

  Neville did not want to own that he had considered that option more than once. Instead, he answered, “Those curs slew Watson, and he was my friend. I could not leave while his murderer went unpunished.”

  Old Jimmy nodded, then winced as Priscilla tended to his skull. “Careful there, missus.”

  “M’lady,” corrected Edgar quietly.

  “Truly?” Old Jimmy turned to look at Priscilla. “Truly?”

  “What does it matter?” she asked. “Your head needs attention, and I am giving it.”

  The highwayman seemed uncertain how to reply, and Neville took the pause to ask, “Did you see the ones who attacked you?”

  “Aye. They came from the side, but I saw the first rider’s dark cloak and a light colored ’orse.”

  “Nothing else?”

  He shook his head and moaned. “I was too busy jumpin’ out of the way of that by-blow’s sword.”

  “Sword?” Priscilla asked a second before Neville could. “Did you see anything unique about it?”

  “No. I was more worried about keepin’ m’ead on m’neck to look at it close-like. Jes wanted to get out of its way. But the other chap ’ad a pistol.”

  “Other? So both of them ambushed you?”

  “Aye. Two ’gainst one. Not fair.”

  “These two have no interest in fighting fair.” Neville rose to a squat. “They were interested in killing you. Pris, let Edgar finish cleaning those wounds.”

  She handed Edgar the bag and came to her feet as Neville did. Wiping her hands on another piece of cloth, she said nothing while they walked several steps away. She scanned the night, and he growled his prayers backwards.

  She put her hand on his arm. “Cursing will gain us nothing.”

  “No, but it makes me feel better.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “As if I had been kicked in the head by an elephant. If the fool had not shot high, I would not be here to gripe.”

  Her brows lowered, and she tapped her chin with her finger. “You were grazed by the ball. So were Old Jimmy and Miss Verlyn. That suggests we are dealing with a skilled marksman or an amateur.”

  “Why?” He knew he should be able to follow her logic, but his head throbbed with a dozen stinging wounds.

  “Because either the shooter knew exactly where to aim to disable but not kill, or he is not accustomed to firing a gun and aimed at the heart, but the gun kicked up when fired.”

  Dash it! Her mind was working at its full speed while his was mired in treacle. “Good thoughts, Pris, but we will have to put those aside for now.”

  “And take care of Old Jimmy. He has lost a lot of blood.”

  “That is why we cannot leave him here. We have to give up our pursuit of the murderers.”

  “Most likely what they intended when they attacked Old Jimmy.”

  His eyes widened as he stared at her shadowed face. He had not considered that. He had assumed this old man was their target. If he had been only a distraction . . . He called to Edgar. Leaving the old man with the bottle, the thief ran to them.

  “We need to alert Cross straightaway,” Neville said, after sharing their thoughts. Priscilla’s thoughts. Dash it! He needed to get his own brain focusing on something other than pain. “The killers could strike anywhere now.”

  “We are not far from our meetin’ spot,” Edgar said. “Go there, and ye should find ’im waitin’ fer everyone to bring ’im a share of wot they gathered t’night.”

  “If you hurry, Edgar—”

  “I cannot go. Ye go, Sir Neville. If I appear there alone, Cross will ’ave m’ead coz I left ye and the missus to vanish like the killer.”

  “If you think we would betray you now . . .”

  Edgar seemed to shrink within himself. “Didn’t mean to insult ye or Lady Priscilla, Sir Neville. Wot I know and wot Cross believes aren’t the same, but that does not matter. Cross is our leader.”

  Neville nodded, understanding what Edgar did not say. If the thief appeared in the Order’s sanctuary, Cross would see him dead before any explanation could be given.

  “Go,” urged Priscilla. “Old Jimmy needs someone to watch over him, and we cannot take him to Rossington Hall. That would create too many questions. Go and get help.”

  On the ground, Old Jimmy groaned. That sound more than her plea shattered every argument Neville had.

  “Watch over her,” Neville ordered Edgar as he unlashed his horse’s reins from the bush. “As if she were Agatha.”

  “Even more.” Edgar put his fingers to his forelock and bowed his head. “Agatha knows these woods even better than I do, and she can take care of ’erself without me.”

  Priscilla halted him with her hand and whispered, “Take care of yourself, too, Neville. You are not steady on your feet.”

  “I will stay on them until I get back to you.” He gave her the roguish smile he knew delighted her. “Then we will both get off our feet.”

  “Together,” came back her breathy answer.

  He somehow managed to get into the saddle and turn the horse into the darkness. He did not look back, because he doubted he could leave if he saw the longing on her face again.

  PRISCILLA ALLOWED Old Jimmy a few sips from what was left in the bottle. She saw Edgar’s envious glances, but did not offer him any. The old man’s eagerness for another drink kept him conscious. If he fainted, she feared waking him would be difficult. Or impossible.

  Easing his head, now wrapped in rags, to the ground, she froze at a distant sound. Hoofbeats! Edgar was on his feet, edging toward the road, his hand on his pistol.

  “Take care,” she urged. “Don’t fire without being sure who rides toward us.”

  “Aye.”

  Neither of them spoke further. She glanced at Old Jimmy, then draped her cape over the bandages around his head. He mumbled something. She ignored him. No hint of the moonlight’s reflection must betray them.

  Go past! she urged the riders silently. Go past or be help!

  Neville had been gone less than a half hour. Could he be returning already? How quickly would Mr. Cross act to save one of his own?

  Then she realized the horses were slowing. She saw Edgar’s shoulders stiffen, and she held her breath, hoping it would not be her last.

  Edgar let out a welcoming shout. She gasped out the stale breath when she saw Neville leap off his horse. Several men followed. She did not bother to count as Neville rushed to her. Rising to her feet, she heard Old Jimmy grumble.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, bending toward him.

  “Put yer arm back where it
was, m’lady.” His voice was slurred from the brandy in the bottle. “Never ’ad a lady’s soft breast ’gainst my nose before. Fine. Very fine.”

  Priscilla gasped and drew Neville aside.

  He laughed. “Pris, do not fret. I am not going to knob that old thief.” He tapped her nose. “I am accustomed to the effect you have on every man, no matter what his age.”

  “I did not think you would. I wanted to give them room to lift Old Jimmy without doing him further damage.”

  “How kind of ye,” snarled a familiar voice from the road.

  Mr. Cross strode toward them, as if he were the Prince Regent himself. He paid no mind to the men helping Old Jimmy.

  “Do you have someone who can watch over him while he heals?” she asked, refusing to be intimidated—at least outwardly—by the thief.

  “As my friend Neville said, do not fret, m’lady.” His lips curled in a sardonic smile. “Or mayhap ye should.” Glancing at Edgar to include him in the conversation, he drawled, “Seein’ as none of ye are makin’ any progress in capturin’ those swadlers.”

  “But those murderers are not thieves,” Priscilla fired back, determined he would not try to trip her the double again with his low cant.

  “Ye are learnin’, m’lady. From who, I wonder?” Again he looked at Edgar and cursed. “Ye and Agatha are ready to buy and sell all of us in exchange for livin’ in a fancy house.”

  “They have not betrayed you or the Order,” Priscilla argued.

  “Jes wot I would expect ye to say when they probably have told ye enough to send all of us to the gallows.”

  Priscilla gasped indignantly. “How can you believe I would do that after—?”

  Neville interrupted, “You will not change his mind, Pris. Even if you could, now is not the time.” Facing Mr. Cross, he asked, “Will you take your man and tend to him, as you agreed? Let us do as we agreed and find those killers.”

  “Yer time is almost up.” Mr. Cross raised one finger. “Tomorrow night. I want those bastards brought t’me tomorrow night.”