Page 22 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
This voice belonged to Mr Leek and was followed by the loud explosion of a volley of shots. Panicked that he might end upwith a bullet in his person, Lucian leaned low against Bramble and urged the horse on.
The residents of Plumpton certainly showed great deference to firearms, if not earls. Lucian felt increasingly certain that amongst the gun-toting villagers they would find the true culprit of the murder. And what better way to win Miss Hughes' favour than by proving her father’s innocence?
CHAPTER NINE
THE MORNING FOLLOWINGthe dinner in Crabb Hall found Sarah out of sorts. It had nothing to do with the food served the night before—all five courses had been delicious—but rather the uncertainty she felt about Lord Deverell. And, more dangerously, the certainty she felt about his noble mien, broad shoulders, and the unmistakable thrill in her stomach when he teased her.
Therein lay the nub of her anxiety: was the earl sincere in his flirtation, or was it all just a lark to him? She was not Mary or Jane; she had not spent a season in London and did not know how the aristocracy played their games. The only thing that was certain, was that the earl himself had told her that he’d feigned an interest in her to divert Mrs Mifford.
And now she was left wondering whether she was witnessing him being hoist by his own petard—or whether it was her fanciful heart that was at risk of destruction.
Following breakfast, she sat down with the maid-of-all-work, Anne, to plan out the next week’s menus.
“So, that’s roast chicken Wednesday, cold chicken Thursday, and pie on Friday?” Sarah said, her mind not truly on the task at hand.
“Aye, and the ham on Saturday’ll see us through ‘till Monday,” Anne confirmed. “But I’ll need to pop down to the village to fetch a bit of suet before I start.”
“There’s a full jar in the larder,” Sarah protested, with confusion.
Anne’s gaze dropped to her lap though her pink ears gave her away.
“He told me he’d given it up,” Sarah said, laughing. “That cold he had over winter knocked him for six, and he swore he’d rather go forever without a single pinch of snuff than suffer the ignominy of having Dr Bates call again.”
“He just wants a small box,” Anne said with a helpless shrug. “A man needs his vices, Miss Hughes.”
And, as that man was the one who paid Anne’s wages, Sarah guessed that her protests would not be heeded.
“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” Sarah commented dryly, as—with impeccable timing—her father materialised at the kitchen door.
Mr Hughes glanced over his shoulder to ascertain there was no one behind him, before turning back to Sarah with innocent confusion.
“I’m certain I don’t know who you’re speaking of,” her father commented piously. “I just came to give Anne a few coins; she’s off to buy suet.”
Sarah rolled her eyes as her father deposited a small coin-purse on the table with a none-too-discreet wink to the maid.
“I’ll just fetch my shawl,” Anne squeaked, as she pocketed the purse. She fled the table, leaving Sarah to cast a rather droll look her father’s way.
“What?” he inquired, all innocence.
“You shouldn’t ask Anne to lie on your behalf, that’s what,” Sarah scolded, though her tone was more amused than anything else.
“She enjoys the subterfugeandthe chance to ogle the lad in the butcher’s shop,” her father smiled, giving a helpless shrug. “One needs one’s vices.”
“You’re as bad as each other,” Sarah huffed. “Next thing we know, Anne will be eloping with the butcher’s boy and you’ll be laid up with a lung complaint.”
“Do not worry about Anne and I, we’re made of sterner stuff than you might think,” her father answered before abruptly changing the subject with an awkward clearing of his throat. “I had Mrs Mifford in my ear for much of last night.”
“Should I prepare an onion poultice?” Sarah managed a note of lightness, though inside her heart sank. She knew where this conversation was heading and she felt ashamed that her father had been drawn into the tangle of lies that she and Lord Deverell had woven.
“For once her whisperings were sweet,” her father smiled. “She informs me that this Lord Deverell has set his cap at you and reckons we shall soon hear the sound of wedding bells.”
“Well he has said nothing of the sort to me of such intentions,” she answered, for this was the truth.
“She seems quite certain,” Mr Hughes insisted. “And I believe she means well, Sarah. She became quite misty eyed at the idea of playing matchmaking mama to you, in your own mother’s absence. She wants to see you happy—as do I. Your whole life is in front of you, dearest, I don’t want you to feel that you have to sacrifice your happiness to look after me.”
“You’re just trying to marry me off so you can enjoy your snuff in peace,” Sarah countered.
Her father chuckled but Sarah’s own smiled wavered. She felt riddled with guilt; not just for her father but for Mrs Mifford too. She might be overbearing, interfering, and a touch theatrical, but Sarah didn’t doubt that her desire to see Sarah happily wed was sincere. How thoroughly wicked she felt for deceiving her.
