A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,2

had evidently not spotted Mary, for he began to try to open the window from the outside, rattling it on its hinges.

A thief! In Lower Plumpton! Outrageous!

Mary deposited the jar of nostrum into a nearby bush and reached down to the ground to scoop up a stone. Though she did not like Mr Parsims, she was not about to stand by and watch a thief intrude on his home. With very little thought to her own personal safety--in fact, with no thought or reasoning at all--Mary flung the stone across the garden at the would-be-intruder.

An onlooker might wonder how a young woman who had grown up in a house filled with females might have such a true aim, but having three sisters--stocking pilfering ones at that--had proved itself to be a greater target practice than even archery might manage. Mary's stone hit the intruder smack-bang on the back of his head, causing him to emit a curse most unsuitable for female ears.

A blasphemer as well as a thief, Mary thought with a sniff.

"Stop right there," she called, grabbing his attention, "If you continue your attempt at robbing Mr Parsims, I can assure you that another, larger stone is headed your way."

The thief--still rubbing the back of his head--turned to face Mary, and her triumphant heart seemed to stop dead within her chest.

The thief was very handsome.

He was also very tall.

His coat, if Mary was not mistaken, was Weston.

His looks, coupled with his fine attire, were embellished even further by his expression; haughty, outraged, and decidedly aristocratic.

Mary began to wonder if she might have, perhaps, made a mistake.

"I shall not stand idly by and watch you rob poor Mr Parsims," Mary continued, though her voice wavered as a pair of amused blue eyes watched her.

"I can assure you that I have no need to rob Mr Parsims," the man replied, in a smooth voice which was most certainly Etonian in its origin; "I am Northcott."

The duke!

Mary felt all the blood in her body rush to her face; if there was one man in all of England who did not need to resort to stealing to earn his keep, it was Northcott.

"Your Grace," Mary stammered, rushing through the garden-gate toward him, "I did not know it was you."

"I had gathered," Northcott raised his hand to once again rub the back of his head, "Though I must commend you on your aim."

This rubbing of his head ruffled his dark locks so that they were even more rakishly dishevelled than before. Something in the pit of Mary's stomach twinged with longing, and she realised that she was on the verge of descending into giddy hysterics at His Grace's devilishly handsome good looks.

You are a spinster, Mary reminded herself sternly, you abhor men--especially the good-looking ones. Pull yourself together, woman.

And so, Mary did.

She took a deep breath, before adopting her most pious tone; "Well, you cannot blame me for defending Mr Parsims' property, Your Grace, when it looked as though you were going to break-in through the window. Whatever were you about? Surely if Mr Parsims was out, you might have called back later?"

Northcott frowned; he was not, Mary guessed, a man who often had his motives questioned. Nor, judging by the twitch of his mouth, was he a man who enjoyed it.

"I thought I heard shouting from inside," Northcott answered stiffly, "It sounded like an argument."

"Whoever would Mr Northcott be arguing with?" Mary questioned, more to herself than the duke, "He lives alone."

"I am aware of that," Northcott answered dryly, "Which is why I wished to investigate."

"Very good," Mary replied, for he appeared to be awaiting a response, "Carry on."

Two dark eyebrows were drawn together incredulously; one did not usually grant a duke permission to do anything unless one was a king.

"You are most gracious," Northcott drawled, turning his back on Mary to rap once more on the window.

It was a dismissal, Mary knew, but still, she lingered, curious about both the duke and the argument he had heard within.

After a few seconds, Northcott's knock was answered, though not at the window. Mr Parsims, dressed in his customary dark attire, opened the front door of the rectory and peered outside.

"Your Grace, what a surprise," he called, in a voice which sounded to Mary's ears anything but surprised, "To what do I owe this great honour?"

Though Mr Parsims' tone sounded forced, his words were exactly the sort one ought to use around a duke. Saying Northcott's presence was a "great honour" was a far more