Page 29 of A Victim, A Viscount, And Miss Mifford
Mrs Canards stood alongside Mrs Wickling, both shooting dagger-like stares at Mrs Price who—being in possession of a far more agreeable disposition than Mrs Canards—was surrounded by a large group of ladies.
The pure venom with which Mrs Canards looked at Mrs Price reminded Jane of the mystery of Lord Crabb's death. Things which appeared trivial to one person, could incite rage in another. Was it possible that one of the viscount's servants had succumbed to a murderous rage over an incident so minor that no one had made note of it, bar the offended?
The idea was a depressing one, for if it were true, it meant that Lord Crabb's true killer might never be discovered.
Mrs Mifford, flanked by Emily and Eudora, then emerged from the grocers, enquiring loudly if anyone had seen Jane. Not wishing to spend the afternoon following her mama from this shop to that, Jane discreetly slipped away toward Lower Plumpton, to return home the long way, alongside the river.
There was not a soul in sight as Jane crossed the low bridge at the stream and veered down the wooded path which led to the riverside. Here, nature was her only companion, and a quiet one at that, given it was midwinter. The branches of the trees overhead were bare, populated only by the odd robin or blackbird, on the hunt for their supper.
Jane allowed her mind to wander as she walked. She thought on poor Prunella, who seemed so distraught, on Mr Allen, and how he so revered the Crabb family history, and on the new viscount, who had looked most handsome the previous evening—and had borne Mrs Mifford's meddling with grace and dignity.
Any romantic notions she felt toward Lord Crabb would have to be abandoned, Jane thought mournfully, for her mama had gone out of her way to disgrace Jane at dinner. Lord Crabb would have to be very dense indeed to not have noticed Mrs Mifford's flagrant matchmaking, and he would have to be very foolish to consider marrying into a family which was headed by a woman who could hold neither her wine nor her tongue.
Thoroughly disheartened, Jane traipsed on, trying not to think of the only option left over to her now—a season in London. How would she fare in town, she wondered, with all the eyes of the ton upon her? How did one find a husband, when the process of doing so was little more than an exercise in pageantry?
As she approached the bend in the river, where she usually took the short-cut over the fence, Jane sighted a familiar figure—Lord Crabb. He was standing, with his back to her, idly surveying the view as his mount grazed on the feeble winter offerings underfoot.
Was he...?
Jane shook her head, she was about to ask herself if Lord Crabb was waiting for her, but that would be most presumptuous.
Still, he started as she called his name, and when he turned his ears looked remarkably pink for a man usually so composed.
"Miss Mifford," he offered her a short, elegant bow as she approached, "What a surprise. I have been riding all morning and had just stopped a moment to appreciate the view."
As there was not much difference between this portion of the river and any other part, Jane was tempted to wonder if he was, perhaps, fibbing. Had he been waiting for her? He certainly seemed inclined to linger...
"I am just returning home from a meeting of the Plumpton Parish Ladies' Society," Jane replied, her insides too scattered to think of anything more interesting to say. Lord Crabb's green eyes had the unnerving ability to make her mind turn to mush when they were focused on her. "We were discussing jam."
"Jam?"
"Among other things," Jane cleared her throat, annoyed that a handsome face had robbed her of her ability to form sentences, "We also discussed organising an assembly to welcome you properly to Plumpton, the only proviso to that taking place is your willingness to attend."
"I can think of nothing more delightful," Lord Crabb was gracious, "Though if I may stipulate one condition of my own? The first dance with the lovely Miss Mifford."
Jane flushed; he was flirting with her. Inexperienced as she was with the ways of men, even she could see his words were more than mere manners.
"I look forward to it, my lord," she replied honestly, as inwardly she wished that she were more of a coquette. A man like Lord Crabb was accustomed to ladies skilled in the art of flirting and game-playing—Jane knew that she must look provincial in his eyes.
Still, if Lord Crabb was unimpressed by her simple reply, he did not show it. In fact, he looked rather pleased.
"Another evening in the company of the Miffords," the viscount grinned, "I am blessed."
"Ah-ha," Jane laughed, "I believe I have caught you in an untruth, my lord; you cannot think yourself blessed at all, having endured my family's rambunctious behaviour last night."
"I found your family most charming, Miss Mifford," Lord Crabb objected, though his eyes danced with mirth.
"Even my mother?" Jane deadpanned.
"Especially your mother," he assured her, his gallant words accompanied by a rather mischievous wink.
"Now I am certain that you are merely being polite," Jane grinned in return.
His manner was so easy and cheerful that, despite her natural reservedness, Jane chanced to broach a thought which had troubled her the previous evening.
"Might I ask, my lord?" she ventured, "Last night in the Long Room, as we surveyed the portraits of all the Crabbs throughout the ages, I came to wonder how the name Bonville came to infiltrate the line? I am not suggesting that there is anything improper about it, of course, but it is most unusual, and I wondered..."
"A very good question," Lord Crabb smiled in reply, though for the first time that afternoon, that same smile did not quite meet his eyes, "Bonville was my mother's name; when I left the navy, I opted to use her name rather than my father's."
