Page 17 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
A slight case of hyperbole on his part, but while speaking with Mrs Vickery had been far from pleasurable, it had most certainly been illuminating.
Lucian continued on his walk back to Northcott Manor, now satisfied that he had three compelling bits of information to lay before Miss Hughes. Like a schoolboy, he hoped fervently that she would be impressed by his work.
His need to impress was, he thought with some despair, faintly ridiculous—he was anearl. Though it appeared, that when it came to Miss Hughes, he was very much just a man.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THAT EVENING’S HOSTINGduties had passed from Mary to her sister Jane, Viscountess Crabb.
Sarah—who had half expected to have her invitation revoked, given the circumstances—pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders as she disembarked from the gig that had borne her and her father to Crabb Hall.
A groomsman rushed forward to relieve her father of the reins, while a footman solicitously invited them both to follow him inside the medieval manor house.
“See, no one is waving pitchforks,” Sarah’s father joked as they made their way inside.
“I’m not worried about pitchforks,” Sarah murmured in response. She was worried about the hangman’s noose.
“All the fuss will blow over in a week or so,” Mr Hughes assured her, patting her hand awkwardly.
Her father was not a man who expressed emotion readily and this was his way of telling her he understood her worry. It was also his way of underscoring that he did not wish to discuss Mr Hardwick’s murder any further.
Sarah held in a churlish sigh; it was rather hard to feel motivated to save a man’s name when he was being so vexatious.
They followed the footman in silence through the cavernous entrance hall—lit by heavy wrought-iron chandelier—to the slightly more modern drawing room, where they were warmly greeted by their host and hostess.
“Good of you to come, Mr Hughes,” Ivo, Lord Crabb said loudly as he shook Mr Hughes’ hand.
Sarah guessed the unusually loud greeting was meant for the benefit of the guests—those not related to the Mifford clan, at least.
In the corner by the huge fireplace, she spotted Dr Bates blinking nervously at them from behind his spectacles. On the red-velvetKlismosbench, Colonel and Mrs Fawkes craned their necks to get a better view. Even the dowager duchess—who adored a scandal—was surreptitiously watching them over the rim of her wine glass.
Sarah felt a surge of gratitude for Ivo; as local magistrate, it was his job to uphold the law, and such a public display of support would not go unreported.
“Miss Hughes, there you are!”
Lord Crabb was unceremoniously ushered out of the way by Mrs Mifford, who materialised at Sarah’s side, clutching the earl’s arm.
Her fingers were causing quite the dent in the fine merino wool of his coat, Sarah noted with alarm.
“I was just telling Ashford about the gardens,” Mrs Mifford began enthusiastically. “The knot garden is such afineexample of Tudor design. Thank heaven my uncle insisted on preserving it rather than rip it out and replace it with something more modern.”
From the corner of her eye, Sarah caught Jane lift her hand to her mouth to cover a smile. The late Lord Crabb’s refusal to update the gardens had been due to parsimony rather than any wish to preserve history. And, rather unfortunately, when he had at last been persuaded to update the gardens by his young fiancée—Sarah’s cousin, Prunella—he’d ended up dead.
“Would you be so kind as to escort the earl and I around the gardens?” Mrs Mifford continued, directing her question toSarah—and Sarah only, “I’ve told him what a keen interest you have in topiary.”
Mr Hughes glanced at his daughter with confusion; like Sarah, this was the first that he had heard about her passion for shaping shrubs.
“I also adore gardening,” Mrs Fawkes called in a breathy whisper, as she rose from the sofa to join them.
The eye of every man in the room swiveled to appreciate her generous, silk-clad figure as she crossed the floor. Even Lord Deverell was not immune; a brief—but painful—stab of jealousy struck Sarah as he glanced at the colonel’s dashing wife—only for his eyes to pass over her without the faintest flicker of interest. Sarah’s breath eased in her chest.
“Is that so, Mrs Fawkes?” Mrs Mifford mused aloud, her tone breezy but her eyes hard and calculating.
Sarah waited in trepidation for Mrs Mifford to pounce. She could see even Jane looked nervous as she tried to anticipate what barbed reply her mother might use to shoot down Mrs Fawkes.
Perhaps an acerbic comment that gardening wasn't theonlypastime Mrs Fawkes employed in her husbands absence?
"Well," Mrs Mifford began and the room as a collective held its breath. "How wonderful to have another enthusiast in our midst. Come, Mrs Fawkes, you must give me your detailed opinion on what we see."
