Page 18 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
Mrs Mifford transferred her iron grip from the earl’s arm to Mrs Fawkes’ and marched her from the room.
Sarah and Lord Deverell were left with little choice but to follow in their wake.
“Keep thine friends close,” Lord Deverell murmured with amusement, as he took Sarah’s arm to escort her from the room.
Outside, dusk had draped the gardens in a warm golden light. It was the kind of summer evening that was made forgentle strolls and light conversation. Sarah felt a brief stab of pity for Mrs Fawkes, who was being dragged ahead at breakneck speed through the low topiary maze by Mrs Mifford.
“You might be pleased to learn that my walk into the village yielded some interesting information,” Lord Deverell informed her, a quiet note of satisfaction to his deep timbre.
Sarah, whose attention had been trapped by the feel of his arm under his coat—so thrillingly muscular—gave a distracted squeak that she hoped conveyed interest.
“Three of our suspects are known for their deadly aim,” the earl continued, mercifully unaware of her inner tumult. He continued on to detail all that he had learned, then finished with his strange encounter with Mrs Vickery.
“It’s sounding more and more like Mr Leek is the man we should focus our attentions on,” Sarah answered, keen to distract the earl from his focus on Mrs Bridges.
“Everyone is a suspect until we are certain we have our culprit,” Lord Deverell replied firmly.
“Did you learn that fromThe Newgate Calendar?” Sarah teased.
The earl shot her a stricken glance as he lifted his free hand to his heart, to convey his hurt. He looked so endearingly wounded that Sarah had a sudden, ridiculous urge to place her hand upon his chest and feel his heart beat. It was just as all the stern matrons had warned: spend too much time in close proximity to a man, and one’s morals jumped straight out the window.
“That was shared in confidence, Miss Hughes,” Lord Deverell chided, though his eyes danced, letting Sarah know that he was teasing her in turn.
“I humbly beg your forgiveness, my lord,” she replied with a smile.
“If it is forgiveness that you seek, then for your penance I insist you call me Lucian. One can’t know a man’s greatest secret and then carry on addressing him so formally.”
“I do believe penance is for Catholics, my lord,” Sarah replied on a sharp exhale, her cheeks aflame. Inexperienced as she was with romance, she knew this time that the earl was most definitely flirting with her. His motives, however, remained unclear. Perhaps all male members of the ton were outrageous flirts?
“Humour me,” he said lightly, before adding with a boyish grin; “Sarah.”
She did not get a chance to admonish him for his use of her given name, for they were interrupted by Mrs Fawkes, who had managed to manoeuvre Mrs Mifford in their direction.
“Such fine gardens,” Mrs Fawkes said breathlessly, her cheeks charmingly pink from the exertion of dragging Mrs Mifford. “I should like dearly to know your thoughts on them, my lord.”
With practiced skill, Mrs Fawkes managed somehow to extrapolate herself from Mrs Mifford’s grip and place her arm on Lord Deverell’s. Not wishing to bolster the earl’s ego by having two women hang off him, Sarah pulled her own hand away.
Lord Deverell frowned as she withdrew her touch.
“Is that the gong I hear?” Mrs Mifford cried, refusing to be bested by Mrs Fawkes. “Let us return inside.”
“I didn’t hear anything,” Sarah overheard Mrs Fawkes complain to the earl, as the Mifford matriarch ushered them all back to the house.
By the time they had returned to the drawing room, the gong had actually sounded. With Mrs Fawkes still clinging like a limpet to the earl’s arm, Sarah found herself escorted to the dining room by Colonel Fawkes.
As the colonel was both affable and handsome, Sarah was not overly put-out.
“Dreadful news about Mr Hardwick,” the colonel commented, though his bored tone suggested indifference to the tragedy.
“Some say it was not unexpected, given Mr Hardwick’s ambitions for the farm,” Sarah replied carefully. “Though it is, of course, dreadful news.”
“I’d like to meet the man who shot him,” Colonel Fawkes continued, in a tone that now conveyed admiration. He spoke as though he had not listened at all to Sarah’s response, perhaps he hadn’t, given that in his army-career he was not often forced to listen to the voices of women. “Dr Bates reckons he was struck twice from quite a fair distance. Clean entry wounds, no scorching. That takes nerve—and excellent marksmanship.”
“Perhaps you have some competition for this year’s shooting competition, colonel?” Sarah suggested lightly, as she tried to decipher if his little speech was sincere, or an attempt to distract.
“I’d like to see anyone try out-score me,” he guffawed in response, completely self assured about his own talents.
They had now reached the dinning table where Sarah saw that each seat had been assigned with a place-name. Her eyes scanned the table until she sighted her own name, reading with relief, that she was not to be seated beside the colonel.
