Page 8 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
“What a pity Mr Hardwick intends to cut you off,” she commented. She turned to look with annoyance at her husband, who had clearly trod on her toe to silence her. “What? There’s no point in ignoring it.”
“Nothing in life is ever certain, my dear Mrs Mifford,” Mr Leek said in response, his thin lips curled into a smile. “Now, I don’t know about all you, but the air in here has made me quite thirsty. Let us repair to the courtyard; my housekeeper, Mrs Vickery, has prepared us some cordial.”
Sarah was glad to trade the cloying air of the hothouse for the freshness of the garden. The group followed Mr Leek back along the raked gravel paths to the courtyard—a rather generous description for a small paved area at the side of the small house. There his housekeeper, who Sarah recognised from Sunday service, awaited them.
“I have prepared a tomato and spice cordial for your guests, sir,” she said, executing a stiff curtsy as though she was being presented at court.
The guests each accepted a glass of the blood red cordial from Mrs Vickery. It smelled tart to Sarah’s nose and when she sipped on it the taste was bitter.
“Delightful,” Mrs Mifford exclaimed, her wince belying the enthusiasm of her tone. “I am so fond tomatoes; frightfully hard to grow but worth the effort.”
“I wasn’t aware you grew tomatoes, dearest,” Mr Mifford commented mildly to his wife.
“Yes, well it will probably take you a year to notice when I die,” she gamely answered, “I’ll be mummified in the drawing room before you think to ask where I am.”
“I’ll notice when you die, mother, never fear.” Mary reassured Mrs Mifford, before giving a quelling look to her father for his part in the fracas.
“I’ll notice because I’ll finally know a moment’s peace,” Mary hissed, as she sidled up to Sarah. Then her face fell, as it always did, when she complained about her mother to Sarah. “I’m sorry, I know I must sound ungrateful.”
“Please do not apologise,” Sarah said, most firmly. Now that Mrs Mifford had embroiled her in a farce with the earl, Sarah had no qualms listening to Mary’s complaints about her mother. Any other day, she might have felt a pang of longing for her own mother—some fifteen years dead—but not today. Especially not as—over Mary’s shoulder—the Earl of Ashford caught her eye and delivered a conspiratorial wink.
Sarah was saved a blush as Mrs Vickery gave a cry of anger, startling all the guests.
“Mr Leek, the crows are back,” she cried, waving her fist in the air at a murder of corvids circling overhead.
“Excuse me a second,” Mr Leek said to his guests, disappearing momentarily through a set of French doors, before returning with a shotgun in hand.
The assembled guests watched in a mix of fascination and horror as their host raised the shotgun, took aim, and fired at a crow that had landed on one of the gravel paths. Sarah shielded her eyes as the bird exploded into a cloud of feathers.
“I must say, you’re a crack shot Mr Leek,” Lord Deverell said after a pause, though his dry tone implied that he was simply saying something—anything— to fill the stunned silence.
“You have to be, to protect the gardens,” Mr Leek rested the shotgun down, his expression one of great satisfaction. “Isn’t that right, Mrs Vickery?”
“Yes, sir,” the housekeeper agreed, her round face alight with fervour.
“May God help Silas Hardwick, if he does decide to cut Mr Leek off from the stream,” Mary whispered into Sarah’s ear.
And then, because at heart she truly was her mother’s daughter, she turned to Sarah with a coy smile and demanded; “Now tell me everything that happened between you and the earl—it is clear that he is smitten by you. I sense another fine match!”
CHAPTER FOUR
MARRIAGE HAD MELLOWEDthe Duke of Northcott somewhat, Lucian reflected, as he followed his host into the local tavern.
When Lucian had known him in London as a young blood, the duke had deigned to favour only the most exclusive members’ clubs—the sort that demanded a willingness to spill a little blood on entry to prove it ran sufficiently blue. Northcott had been high on the instep and entirely unapologetic about it—though, if Lucian was honest, he’d been every bit as intolerable himself.
Now here they both were, perilously close to forty and happy to drink warm ale from chipped tankards if it allowed them a little respite.
“Two pints of your finest, sir,” Northcott called to the forbidding gentleman behind the bar.
“’E ain’t got any finest ales,” an inebriated customer cackled from his perch at the far end of the counter. “’E has muckwater and a step above muckwater, ain’t that right Angus?”
The bearded man behind the bar cast the man a dark scowl. “I’ll have nothing the next time you call for a pint, Mr Marrowbone, if you don’t watch your mouth.”
“Mr Marrowbone is the local constable,” Northcott informed Lucian, as Angus pulled them two pints.
Lucian raised a brow at this morsel of local knowledge; thank heaven Plumpton was a sleepy backwater, for he could not imagine Mr Marrowbone capable of upholding the law.
“Let us hope no one gets murdered on his watch,” Lucian lifted up the pint that Northcott had just handed him in toast.
