Fool's Paradise Read online

  Priscilla rushed into the room. Mud was splattered on usually pristine walls and the hearth. Around the table in the main room, Isaac chased the pup. Beowulf—what an absurd name!—clearly believed it was a game because he barked and nipped at anyone who tried to halt him.

  Wading into the chaos, Neville grasped both the puppy and Isaac by their napes. He easily lifted the pup off the floor as he brought the boy to a quick stop.

  Priscilla turned to calm Mrs. Dunham and the kitchen maids, then paused as Neville asked, “What do you want me to do with these two troublesome pups?”

  “Take them out to the garden,” she replied.

  “But Mama, he is my responsibility,” Isaac argued. “That is what Mr. Atkins said.”

  “And Mr. Atkins is right. Take the puppy outside and make sure he does not run away.”

  He gazed up at her with pleading eyes she always found difficult to resist.

  “I can keep him, can’t I?”

  “Isaac.” She did not need to add another word. They would not have this discussion in the kitchen where he and the pup had added to Mrs. Dunham’s work.

  “Yes, Mama.” He hung his head as Neville released him. Bending, he scooped the filthy puppy up into his arms. His coat received another layer of mud as the puppy squirmed against him and tried to lick his face. “Let’s go, Beowulf.”

  “Beowulf?” repeated the cook as Neville moved to open the back door. “What’s a Beowulf?”

  Priscilla started to explain, but her words were drowned by a drawn-out, “Noooooooooo!”

  Neville arched a brow, and Priscilla hurried from the kitchen. No one other than her oldest could make such a sound. Because the breeze had been coming off the sea, distorting the sound, she had failed to identify the voice before. She returned to the entry hall where her older daughter was storming away from the direction of the informal sitting room.

  “Daphne Flanders,” she chided in her sternest voice, “unless you are signaling the end of the world, stop that caterwauling.”

  “Mama! Thank heavens you are here.” Daphne flung her arms around her mother. “I am so glad to see you.”

  Putting her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and stepping back, Priscilla was glad to see her daughter showed no physical signs of distress that would provoke such a cacophony. With her blond hair swept up in flattering curls and her cheeks bright with color, she resembled Priscilla, though she had inherited her father’s stubborn chin.

  “Maybe you can instill some good sense into him, Mama,” her daughter continued, her voice quivering with strong passion.

  “Him?” Priscilla asked, though she knew the answer.

  Seeing her younger daughter Leah peeking around the stairs with a wide grin, Priscilla could not help wondering what was happening. She hoped it would not be as disruptive as the addition of a puppy to the household, but somehow already knew that wish was doomed.

  “Burke is in the sitting room, Mama!” Daphne cried, flinging out her hands in a wild gesture. “He is spouting nonsense, and he will not heed a word I say. Do you think he will listen to you?”

  “About what?”

  “Where we have our wedding. I don’t know why we are discussing it. I am the bride. The wedding should be held where I want it, and I want to have it at Papa’s church. But will he listen? No! He says it must be—”

  “Yes, I know. I know. We have gone through this before. I thought it was settled.”

  “So did I!” Daphne glowered in the direction of the sitting room. “But no! Now he is saying it cannot be here because his mother is insisting it be held at their family’s estate.”

  Priscilla sighed inwardly. Burke, Lord Witherspoon, adored her daughter, and the affection was wholly returned. When the young marquess asked Daphne to be his bride, her daughter had been beside herself with joy. Then the wedding preparations began. Priscilla wanted her daughter to have the wedding she had dreamed of, but her sympathy was utterly with Burke, caught between his stubborn betrothed and his equally obstinate mother, the widowed Lady Witherspoon. The wedding venue had not been the only bone of contention, but it was the most insolvable one. The soon-to-be dowager marchioness had not been reticent with her opinion that it was a mistake for her son to marry a girl too young and inexperienced in the ways of the ton, a girl who had given her heart irrevocably to the first man who touched it.

  No, Priscilla reminded herself with a silent laugh. Lord Witherspoon had been the second, for Daphne first had decided she would wed Neville before I did. What would Burke’s mother think if Priscilla told her of that difficult time?

  Priscilla could not ease the situation with silly thoughts. “This is a matter you and Burke must resolve.”

  “But he will not listen to me, Mama!”

  “By listening, do you mean he will not agree with you?”

  Daphne did not answer as she lowered her gaze.

  “She means that exactly,” said Burke from the sitting room doorway. He was a well-favored young man whose tawny curls could not soften his strong jaw. His wide shoulders seemed to dwarf Daphne, but there was a gentleness in him Priscilla admired. The young man reminded her of her first husband . . . and Neville. Not that she would ever say that because Neville would find it more an insult than a compliment.

  Almost as an afterthought, Burke added, “Good day, Lady Hathaway.”

  “I thought you were going to address me as Priscilla.”

  “As you wish.” He bowed his head toward her with a smile, but his lips straightened into a frown when he focused on Daphne. “See? It is not difficult to compromise.”

  “Don’t be churlish!” Daphne snapped back. “You are the one refusing to compromise.”

  “Every marquess in our family has been married at the church on the estate. I am asking that we comply with a longstanding tradition.”

  “And doing so will make your mother happy.”

  “Certainly.”

  With a wordless cry, Daphne pushed past him to the stairs. She paused with her foot set on the lowest one. “Is making your mother happy more important than having some part of my father there for our wedding?”

  “Daphne, please listen. If—”

  “That, Lord Witherspoon, is the wrong answer!” She gathered her skirt in her trembling fingers and ran up the stairs. Moments later, the sound of a door slamming reverberated through the house.

  Priscilla said nothing as emotions flashed across Burke’s face. Anger, frustration, dismay, even fear he was hurting the one he loved.

  Putting a consoling hand on his arm, she said, “Don’t take her words to heart. Once she has a chance to think more clearly, I am sure you two can work something out that will please both of you.”

  “If only it were just the two of us.” His eyes widened. “Oh, I should not have said that.”

  “Then I shall forget I heard it. Burke, every bride is frantic about her wedding.”

  “You were not.”

  Priscilla smiled. “If you are referring to my second wedding, no, I was not, but I daresay while planning my first, I was as much of an air-dreamer as Daphne. I drove everyone around me quite out of their minds.”

  “Are you suggesting Witherspoon reconsider and become Daphne’s second husband?” asked Neville as he stepped into the entry hall. “That seems a high price to pay simply to avoid a bit of distress.”

  “A bit?” Burke’s tone lightened at Neville’s teasing, and Priscilla wondered if the young marquess would feel more comfortable discussing the plans for the wedding with another man.

  The very idea of the two very masculine men sitting with samples of fabric and menus and deciding on which flowers to use and where to seat each guest was ridiculous. She laughed. They looked at her, and she shook her head.

  “A bizarre thought. Nothing more,” she explai
ned.

  “I hate to ask,” Burke said, glancing up the stairs, “but do you think you could speak with her? Holding the wedding in the family church is important to my mother. I thought Daphne would understand and want to make me happy.”

  “She does,” Priscilla said. “Making you happy makes her happy, but she has come to believe, for some reason, that the only way her father can be a part of the wedding is if it is held in the church here where he was vicar for most of her life.”

  Neville cleared his throat and asked, “Could it be, Witherspoon, your mother does not want to remind the ton you are marrying the daughter of a vicar?”

  Color washed from Burke’s face. “No . . . I don’t know. I never considered it from that angle. Mother was less resistant to me proposing to Daphne after you were made a baron, Hathaway.”

  “Who would have guessed I would become the respectable one?” Neville chuckled.

  Another shout rang through the house. Beowulf careened into the entry hall, eluding both Burke and Neville who tried to grab him and failed. In his wake followed Isaac and Leah, her hair ribbons askew and the hem of her dress green with grass stains.

  “Sorry, Mama!” yelled Isaac as he jumped in front of the excited puppy to keep him from heading toward the kitchen.

  “I have him!” Leah leaped forward to throw her arms around the puppy but grasped nothing but air. “No, I don’t.”

  “Beowulf,” Priscilla said in the same calm but stern tone she used with her mischievous children.

  The puppy halted and looked up at her. His tail wagged like the baton of an insane orchestra conductor. Panting, he loped over to her.

  “Here please,” she said, pointing to the floor by her feet.

  No one spoke as the puppy collapsed in front of her, his nose on his paws and his tongue lolling out one side of his mouth.

  Squatting down, she ran her fingers lightly along the top of his head, one of the few spots not covered with drying mud. His fur was as smooth as smuggled French silk. She murmured to the puppy, who slowly closed his eyes, showing he was exhausted. She wondered when he last had a home with someone to make sure he was fed.

  “Good boy,” she whispered.

  She watched as he fell asleep. Poor little beast! The puppy began to snore, a sound almost as loud as his barking.

  Priscilla smiled as she stood. “Another good reason for him to sleep out in the back garden. Why don’t we let him rest, then—?”

  The door opened, and Beowulf was instantly on his feet, making a sound halfway between a bark and a howl. He raced toward the door and the two people entering.

  “Priscilla, why is nobody at your door to greet your guests?” Cordelia Emberley Smith Gray Dexter McAndrews looked down her nose at her niece. The disdainful expression did not annoy Priscilla because she had seen it too many times before. Priscilla could be crowned the queen of England, and her aunt would still find fault with her.

  Oh, bother! The dog’s arrival was nothing compared to the upheaval Aunt Cordelia’s early arrival would create.

  Priscilla shouted a warning before the pup could put his oversized feet on Aunt Cordelia who was dressed, as always, in the very pink of fashion. Neville grabbed the pup, holding him back. The pup escaped again, and Burke leaped forward to grasp it by the rear legs. He fell to the floor as he locked the pup between his knees. Isaac ran to help while Leah shouted for them to be careful and not hurt Beowulf.

  Looking past them to her aunt’s shock, Priscilla shrugged. What could she say? The situation was self-explanatory.

  “It would appear, dearest, your niece has her hands full with other matters.” Aunt Cordelia’s newest husband, Duncan, stepped into the already crowded entry hall. He gave Priscilla a warm smile. “I trust you and Neville have the situation under control.”

  Edging around the wrestling match as Neville, Burke, and Isaac tried to keep the pup from escaping, Priscilla said, “We did not expect you until tomorrow.”

  “So I see.” Aunt Cordelia sniffed. Her black hair was beautifully styled, without a single silver hair evident. Priscilla had no idea if her aunt did not get gray hairs, but she certainly could give them. In fact, Priscilla was surprised her own hair was not completely gray.

  “But we are glad you are here.” She gave her aunt a kiss on the cheek, then did the same to Duncan. Looking over her shoulder as Isaac yelled a warning, she stepped aside as the pup rushed up to sniff at their guests before racing away.

  Neville came to stand beside her, wiping dried mud from his coat. He held out his hand to Duncan and offered Aunt Cordelia a smile she did not return. Before he could say a single word, the door reopened, knocking Aunt Cordelia toward him. He caught her before she stumbled, then pulled her and Priscilla aside as a pudgy man burst into the house.

  Maurice Beamish! What was the miserly baron doing in Stonehall-on-Sea? He disdained the village, preferring his estate to the north of its boundaries or London. The last time he had spoken to her, all he had offered was a sniff of contempt when she asked him to donate to the parish fair.

  His face was full beneath his thinning brown hair, and he wore a waistcoat as bright a yellow as the summer sun. It was cut in a style popular more than a decade ago, but the man had a reputation for wearing his clothes until they were threadbare.

  Before Priscilla could ask the reason for his unannounced call, the baron seized her hands and dropped to his knees.

  His eyes were wide and frenzy filled his words when he cried, “Lady Priscilla, I need your help. You must aid me in saving my daughter’s soul, mayhap her very life. Please, Lady Priscilla. I beg you. Help me!”

  Chapter Two

  NEVILLE HAD NO idea how Priscilla managed it without raising her voice or allowing a whit of distress to slip into her words. In moments, Witherspoon and Isaac had retreated with Beowulf to the back garden to set up a place for the pup to stay until he could be cleaned. Aunt Cordelia and Leah had gone upstairs to Daphne’s bedroom where they could console her after her tiff with Witherspoon. Neville, Duncan, and Maurice Beamish were herded into the formal sitting room where Priscilla was soon serving tea as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  “Astounding,” Duncan murmured as he pulled a silver flask from beneath his coat and poured what Neville guessed was his favorite whisky into his tea. He concealed the flask when Priscilla turned to offer him his choice of the iced cakes. Taking a pink one, he added in the same whisper, “How does she do it?”

  Not having an answer because he was in awe of her special talent to persuade people to do as she wished and let them think it was their idea, Neville looked at Beamish who sat on Pris’s far side and dabbed at the sweat beading on his forehead. He must be close to Duncan’s age but looked much older. Thick jowls gave Beamish a bulldog appearance, as did his small brown eyes.

  Neville hoped the others grasped that underestimating Maurice Beamish would be foolish. He was a powerful force in Whitehall. He held no official post, but it was said several of the ministers in the current government danced to his tune. Rumor suggested he had found them in compromising situations. Neville doubted it was anything simple because powerful men often were found in embarrassing circumstances. Everyone would forget their faux pas as soon as the next member of the Beau Monde was found where he should not have been. Therefore, Beamish must have some other hold on them.

  Keeping his face bland, Neville wondered if Beamish had any idea of the bumble-bath going on up north near the lakes. Impossible! His royal highness had said that Neville was the only one beyond his network of spies and the military commander in that area to be privy to the Regent’s concerns about an odd settlement that was being built there by Sir Thomas Hodge St. John.

  There were rumors that the baronet was gathering soldiers and training them. To fight whom? And why? No one seemed to have been able to get close enough to the villag
e, which apparently was surrounded by a wall, to answer that. What did that crazy man need with a private army? Neville was eager to leave Stonehall-on-Sea and get north so he could see the situation with his own eyes.

  As if Beamish was privy to Neville’s thoughts, the heavy-set man said, “I didn’t expect to see you here, Hathaway.”

  “Why not?” he asked, honestly astonished.

  “Because Lady Priscilla is a woman of the finest breeding and class. You are—”

  “My husband.” Pris offered him a plate of sweetmeats and continued to smile, though her eyes sparked at the insult Beamish had almost spoken.

  “Your . . . husband?” He stared from her to Neville and back in disbelief, then recalled himself. “I may have heard something about those glad tidings,” he continued in a tone that suggested he had thought it was gossip. “You must excuse me. Matters of society don’t matter to me.”

  “What does matter to you, Lord Beamish?” Priscilla asked in the matter-of-fact tone that warned she found Beamish bothersome but would not request him to leave as she clearly wished.

  “My daughter. My dearest Bella.” He moaned and covered his face with his hands. Shudders rippled along him. The man was distraught.

  Or was he?

  Neville had seen plenty of overacting players, both on the boards and off. Beamish’s entrance had struck him as more than a little melodramatic.

  Pris glanced at Neville before asking, “Why do you feel your daughter is in danger?”

  Only a groan came from the baron.

  Neville held out his hand to Duncan. His friend had the decency to shoot Pris an apologetic grin before pulling out his flask. Taking it, Neville opened the top and poured a generous serving into an empty teacup. He offered it to the moaning man.

  “Beamish, this may help,” he said.

  “Nothing can help.”

  “If that is so, why did you come to throw yourself on Lady Priscilla’s mercy?”

  “Neville,” chided Pris under her breath.