A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,16

all," Mary whispered, and thankfully was spared having to explain herself any further as Mr Hargreaves returned, clutching his wife's coat.

"You will never guess what mangy cur I have sighted, Catherine," he growled.

Mary, who had no wish to linger, used his arrival as a means of escape. She slipped out the door, down the stairs, and out into the village square.

A few carts and gigs were parked up before The Ring'O'Bells, alongside a very fine carriage which Mary assumed belonged to the duke. On any other night, Mary might have lingered to admire the liveried footman and driver, the bay geldings, and the coat of arms emblazoned upon the carriage's door, but this was not just any night.

No, this was the night that Miss Mary Mifford had fallen spectacularly from grace, and she wished to be alone to wallow in her misery.

Mary made her way home under the light of a full moon, and once inside Primrose Cottage, she raced upstairs to the room she shared with Jane. Her hands shook as she undid the buttons of her dress, and such was the height of her emotions that she almost flung the thing across the room in a temper. As it was, however, the nicest dress that any of the Mifford girls had ever owned, Mary refrained from such dramatics, and carefully hung the dress inside the wardrobe, before donning her night-rail.

Once under the quilts, Mary allowed herself a little sniffle of self-pity. She had failed at everything; at finding a husband in London, at being Plumpton's most admired spinster, and at acting in a decorous way in front of a duke.

Life, Mary thought, as sleep began to overtake her, could not possibly get any worse.

But, of course, it could...

An hour or two later, Mary was roused from her slumber by Jane, who was furiously shaking her shoulder.

"What is it?" Mary groused, irritable at having been woken.

"It's Mr Parsims," Jane replied, face pale, "He has been murdered."

"What?" Mary squawked, awake now, "By whom?"

"We do not know," Jane said slowly, her eyes filled with fear.

For a moment, Mary was confused by the anguish Jane displayed until the realisation of her circumstances hit her like a tonne of bricks.

Mr Parsims was dead and, thanks to her earlier outburst, Mary was the main suspect.

Chapter Four

The morning after Mr Parsims' murder, Henry was plagued with a headache; a dull, throbbing pain behind his eyes which did not ease, even with the application of camphor oil to his temples.

Despite the pain, Henry did not complain, for it would have been in bad taste, given that the late Mr Parsims had more cause to complain of a pain in the head than Henry. Excepting that he could not because he was dead.

Henry gave a deep sigh as he recalled the events of the night before. The assembly had been exceedingly dull, the only bright spot being that he had been able to keep Miss Mifford in his sights. He had not danced, for there had been no one of his ilk to dance with, and he had not made much conversation, for, excepting Lord Crabb and his mama, there was no one of his ilk to converse with.

When Miss Mifford had left, keenly observed by Henry, all the fun had gone out of the evening, and Henry had decided it was time to start muttering about returning home. Of course, it was not good ton to leave an event abruptly, so Henry, having subtly dropped a few hints of his intention to depart, had been forced to endure another half-hour of Lord Crabb before he could finally declare his plan to leave.

"What an enjoyable evening," he had lied, as he helped Cecilia to her feet, "Everything went so well."

Had he realised that his statement would tempt fate, Henry might have rephrased his words. Alas, Henry was no clairvoyant.

As soon as the words had left his mouth, the doors to the assembly rooms were thrown open, and an elderly lady had let out a scream.

"Mr Parsims is dead!"

The music had stopped at once, replaced by confused whispers and chattering, as the assembled guests registered the news.

"Murdered," the lady had elaborated crossly, as though the reaction of the crowd had not been dramatic enough for her liking.

At once, the whispers and chatters transformed into a roar; several ladies screamed, one had fainted, and Henry had realised that someone was going to have to take charge of matters.

"Where can I find the local constable?" Henry had called, his tone