Page 41 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
She approached the housekeeper cautiously; Mrs Vickery’s granite posture and forbidding scowl did not exactly invite social pleasantries.
“Can I help you, Miss Hughes?” the housekeeper questioned, as she spotted Sarah hovering.
“I just wanted to thank you again, for coming to my father’s defence,” Sarah said, slipping onto the bench beside her.
“Your father is a good man,” the housekeeper sniffed. She cast a disdainful eye at the dancers that made Sarah think she did not often bestow platitudes on others.
“Are you enjoying the dancing?” Sarah ventured, though she already knew the answer.
“Assemblies are dens of iniquity, Miss Hughes,” Mrs Vickery replied. “Over-loud music, under-cooked gossip, and people too fond of drink or other people’s husbands.”
“Oh,” Sarah said, slightly taken aback. “Well, yes. But the lemonade isverynice.”
Mrs Vickery didn’t dignify that with a reply.
Sarah was just wondering how on earth she might steer the already awkward conversation toward the night of the murder, when Mrs Vickery rose to her feet.
“I must return to Long Acres to water the night-blooming cereus,” Mrs Vickery said stiffly. “It only flowers once a year, and only after dusk.”
“You’re very dedicated,” Sarah offered, wondering why Mr Leek did not undertake such a burdensome task.
“Horticulture is a vocation,” Mrs Vickery inclined her head, “Good evening, Miss Hughes.”
Sarah watched her sweep from the room, struck by an unexpected pang of pity for the lonely housekeeper. The swish of her black skirts reminded her of the crows circling above Long Acres. Corvids were a misunderstood bird, perhaps so too was Mrs Vickery?
The glass of lemonade in her hand now empty, Sarah made for the ladies’ convenience room downstairs. She was just adjusting a hairpin in front of the mirror, when she heard the sound of raised voices from outside in the corridor.
“I won’t be made a fool of,” she hear a woman cry.
“Keep your voice down!” a man replied, in a low voice that Sarah could have sworn belonged to Mr Leek.
“Oh, I’ll do more than raise my voice,” the woman snapped. “Spread lies about me, will you? I swear to God, if you ever speak my name again, I’ll shoot you stone dead!”
Sarah froze, her pulse quickening. The woman’s voice belonged to Mrs Fawkes, she was certain of it. She tip-toed toward the door to peer out but by the time she reached it, the couple had already disappeared. Heart pounding, Sarah lingered in the doorway a moment longer to make certain they were gone.
She then rushed up the stairs to the assembly room, scanning the crowd until she found Lord Deverell. He was conversing with Northcott and Lord Crabb, but as soon as he caught sight of her, his expression sharpened.
“Is something amiss?” he asked quietly, as he reached her side.
“I just overheard something downstairs,” she whispered. “Mr Leek and Mrs Fawkes were having a terrible argument, she threatened to shoot him.”
“Did she say why?” Lord Deverell asked, his brow furrowed.
“Something about him spreading lies about her,” Sarah answered helplessly, wishing that she had caught more of the fight.
“We’ll follow it up properly tomorrow,” Lord Deverell assured her. “To see if it might relate to the murder, or if it was just a lover’s quarrel.”
Sarah nodded, wondering how she could return to the festivities as though nothing had happened. And yet, when thenext set was called and Lord Deverell offered her his hand, she found herself accepting it without hesitation.
They danced the remaining sets together, and each turn about the floor seemed to sweep her further from her worries. In his arms, she forgot about everything—even about the murder that had brought them together. All that existed was the music, the warmth of his hand against hers, and the feeling of longing in her heart.
It was not until the next morning, when Anne burst into her room, that the spell shattered.
“Miss Sarah!” the maid gasped. “It’s Mr Leek;he’s been shot!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LUCIAN HAD NEVERslept on a cloud, but when he awoke the morning after the assembly, it seemed the only adequate comparison. His thoughts were light, his step lighter still, and even the memory of the men’s toilet facilities at The Ring could not dampen his spirits.
