Page 44 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
The viscount snorted. “Didn’t think that was your sort of reading material, Ashford.”
Lucian’s ears went red beneath his beaver hat, though he valiantly attempted a look of nonchalance.
“A man must cultivate a broad set of interests,” he said, a little too stiffly.
“If you say so,” Crabb replied with a grin.
The viscount glanced up at the blue sky above, gauging the time from the sun’s position.
“The fête should be starting soon,” he informed Lucian. “What say we split up? I’ll head for Hill House to see if I can get anything useful out of the footman there, and you can see what you can sniff out at the fête.”
“Good idea,” Lucian agreed—though privately, he was thinking the first thing he wanted to sniff out was an apple tansey baked by Miss Hughes.
Halfway down the road the men parted, Lord Crabb galloped off down a back road toward Hill House, while Lucian continued at a more sedate pace toward Plumpton.
The village green had been transformed into a riot of colour and cheerful chaos. Strips of bright bunting fluttered overhead, strung haphazardly from tree to tree. Beneath them stretched lines of stalls offering everything from spun sugar to home-brewed mead—a stall that appeared very popular with the men-folk.
Even Miss Morton had set up a neat table to display her embroidery samplers, each bearing a painfully earnest motto.
“Obedience is the ornament of the home,” Lucian read aloud, with faint horror.
Miss Morton misinterpreted his interest as admiration and simpered prettily.
“This one is my favourite,” she said, batting her eyelashes as she pointed to one which readIdle Hands Invite Ruin.
“How lucky for us all that you keep your hands busy, Miss Morton,” Lucian said somberly, before tipping his hat and fleeing.
Lucian strode past a farmer inviting punters to guess the weight of a pig and a purported fortune teller in a gaudy turban, before he finally spotted Sarah.
“Miss Hughes,” he called, as he pushed his way over to her.
“My Lord,” she smiled as she turned to greet him, the soft scent of lavender drifting in the air between them. Longing surged within him as her scent instantly conjured the memory of holding her in his arms as they danced.
“Care to toss a turnip, guv?” a red-faced boy called out, distracting Lucian somewhat.
“A—what?” he glanced helplessly at Sarah, who shooed the boy away.
“He wants you to pay six-pence to try knock some turnips off their perches,” she explained, as she took the arm he offered. “Unfortunately he’s probably nailed the last turnip to its post.”
“Why, that’s thievery,” Lucian was vaguely outraged yet slightly impressed by his industry.
“It would be, but the parish-hall needs a new roof and he donates all his profits,” Miss Hughes’ wry grin acknowledged the dubious morality of it.
“Now,” she continued, pulling him a little closer, “Tell me everything.”
Lucian stilled. For one mad second, he thought she meant his feelings; his longing, the sleepless night he had spent, replaying the memory of their dance.
“Jane tells me that you and Lord Crabb called upon Mrs Vickery this morning?” Sarah continued, glancing at him curiously.
Lucian’s shoulders sagged a little; she’d meant the case.Of course, that’s what she wanted to know about. Unlike the rest of the British Isles, the ladies of Plumpton held more interest in murder than marriage.
“She confessed to lying for Mr Leek at once,” Lucian said. “Which leads us to the conclusion that Mrs Fawkes is now the prime suspect for both murders.”
“You really believe there’s no one else it could be?” Sarah looked vaguely alarmed. Lucian did not blame her; the idea of the fairer sex committing violence was a difficult notion to grapple with.
“The only other suspect left is Mrs Bridges,” Lucian shrugged, “And I believe Flora has locked up her shotgun whilst she stays with her.”
“Well, here’s our chance to ask her,” Sarah replied, nodding across the green at Miss Bridges. The young woman was walking with great determination to her stride, her elfin face set with purpose.
