Page 19 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
“This is me,” she inclined her head graciously for his escort.
Colonel Fawkes gave a distracted nod in response, his eyes already roaming the room for someone else to talk to—preferably male, she guessed. Sarah felt a little jolt of pity for Mrs Fawkes; though she didn’t condone adultery, she could see why a woman might feel lonely married to a man like that.
Sarah slipped into her chair and was joined a moment later by Eudora, Lady Delaney. The youngest of the Miffordgirls, Eudora had recently married a baron who though seated primarily in Oxfordshire, had a small estate near Plumpton.
“Marriage suits you, Eudora,” Sarah commented, as the baroness smoothed the skirts of her dress.
Eudora’s brow furrowed as she cast her brown eyes down the table to glare at her mother.
“If you would please remind my mother that I am now married, I would be eternally grateful,” Eudora heaved a sigh. “I thought that now I’m no longer under her roof, she’d start treating me as an adult—but the bar for her respect keeps shifting! It seems one isn’t properly grown-up until one has children, in her eyes at least.”
“You’ll have a child of your own soon,” Sarah assured her, as a strange pang of longing pierced her. What would it feel like to cradle her own babe? She banished the image in her mind as swiftly as it came—though not before noticing that the babe had a shock of dark hair, just like...
She needed wine, she decided, reaching out for the glass before her.
“Oh, yes,” Eudora continued on earnestly, “We soon will—Lord Delaney isverycommitted to the process.”
Sarah choked a little on her wine. To her left she heard a faint huff of laughter. She turned to find that Lord Deverell had taken up residence in the seat beside her. As Eudora moved to greet the dowager duchess, who had just sat down, Sarah gave the earl a quelling glare.
“That’s not what she meant,” Sarah whispered, feeling compelled to defend the baroness who, in her eagerness to appear grown up, had made a terrible faux-pas.
“I definitely won’t feel any qualms about addressing you by your given name, now that I know what you discuss at the dinner table, Sarah,” he replied with a raised brow.
Sarah eyed her wine glass and wondered how much of a scandal it would cause if she were to pour the lot over Lord Deverell’s head. Deciding it would be deeply satisfying—but an unforgivable waste of good claret—Sarah settled for taking another, rather pointed sip instead.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re insufferable, my lord?” Sarah queried dryly, the wine making her bold.
“Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?” the earl replied, without missing a beat.
Sarah’s cheeks flared with warmth. She took another deep sip from her claret to calm herself but that served only to increase the heat in her blood.
“An English rose is easily read,” Lord Deverell observed, as he lifted his glass in toast to her blushes.
To Sarah’s relief, she was relieved of having to respond by a stream of servants arriving to serve the first course. Amongst the line of footmen and maids, she spotted a familiar face—Flora Bridges, Mrs Bridges’ granddaughter.
Like her grandmother, Flora was said to hold the secrets of the still-room. Unlike her grandmother, she had shown no particular inclination to spend her days grinding salves and boiling tonics for every chilblain, carbuncle, and mortifying rash to plague the village.
“That’s Mrs Bridges’ granddaughter,” Sarah whispered to Lord Deverell, nodding discreetly toward the bird-like girl.
“Do you think she might know what Hardwick did to upset her grandmother so?” he wondered aloud.
“I will endeavour to find out,” Sarah replied. Though perhaps, while she was at it, she might ask if Flora had a remedy for foolish hearts—for hers, it seemed, was already halfway lost to an earl with no intention of staying in Plumpton.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FOR SOMEONE WHOprofessed to be unsociable, Lucian found himself oddly eager to pay a social call the morning after the dinner at Crabb Hall. During their brief stroll from the garden to the dining hall the night before—of which the finger marks on his arm were a souvenir—Mrs Fawkes had issued an invitation to view her gardens. Lucian suspected the lady of Hill House had hoped he might call in the evening, preferably when her husband was safely returned to Bristol. Instead, over a cheroot on the terrace, Lucian had made arrangements with the colonel to visit the following morning.
The Fawkes' estate sat on a gentle slope overlooking the southern edge of the village, right beside the land Silas Hardwick had recently inherited. Its proximity was, no doubt, what had helped fuel speculation about the rumoured affair. The house itself, Hill House, was square and proper, rather like the man who owned it.
“Lord Deverell,” Colonel Fawkes greeted him in clipped tones as Lucian’s boots crunched onto the gravel drive. “I admire your punctuality.”
The colonel returned his timepiece to his pocket with a satisfied nod, giving Lucian the curious sensation of knowing precisely how the men under his command must have felt.
Lucian handed his reins over to a footman—standing to military attention—and followed the colonel inside.
“Drink?” Colonel Fawkes queried over his shoulder.
“It’s noon somewhere,” Lucian grinned. If he knew one thing about the military, it was that its cogs and wheels were usually well-oiled with alcohol.
