A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,24

of his generous mouth, "That was certainly eye-opening; it seems there's not a person alive who did not wish Mr Parsims dead, which augurs well for you, Miss Mifford."

"Unless we find out who it was that did it, Your Grace," Mary replied glumly, "I'm afraid that it does not matter how many people had murderous thoughts about Mr Parsims, and that I will always be thought of as the suspect."

Despair threatened to overwhelm Mary, but then something strange happened. Northcott gave a strange, strained cough, and his gloved hand brushed briefly against Mary's own. It was an action which might have been completely accidental, perhaps caused by the duke shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but the slight touch sent Mary's heart skittering.

She felt her cheeks blush, and as she willed them to calm down, she felt them growing ever hotter.

"Rest assured, Miss Mifford," His Grace said, "That I shall not rest until I have found the perpetrator and cleared your name."

Oh, if Mary had not been a newly-sworn, dedicated spinster, she might have swooned. As it was, practicality took over her girlish urge to faint--for after London, she knew that no man of means would have any romantic interest in her--and, instead, she offered Northcott a cheery smile.

"And I shall assist you in your task, Your Grace," she replied, sounding as hearty as any gentleman, "I shall poke about a bit, and see if I can gather any information from Mrs Walker and Mrs Wickling. You can take on the men."

"Er, yes," Northcott looked slightly wrong-footed at having been dictated to, "I shall call on you should I learn anything of interest."

"And I shall send word to the manor if I learn anything," Mary agreed, as she unconsciously clenched and unclenched her hand.

She offered Northcott a stiff good-bye, refused his gallant offer of an escort home, and set back off along the Bath Road in the direction of Plumpton.

Though she tried to keep her mind on the task of subtly interrogating Mrs Walker and Mrs Wickling, Mary's thoughts kept drifting back to the moment that Northcott's hand had brushed against hers. Her limbs still felt light, her heart giddy, and she allowed herself a moment to achingly long for Northcott to have done it purposefully--a perfectly ridiculous idea. A duke would never take a fancy to a lady such as she.

You have chosen your path, Mary reminded herself sternly; you shall dedicate yourself only to seeing that your sisters marry well. And the only way to ensure that that would happen, was be by clearing her name.

Mary's step was more certain as she continued on her path. She would do everything in her power to find out just who it was that had killed Mr Parsims--though she could not help but feel that she was overlooking something.

Chapter Six

Although there were a dozen things on the estate to which Henry ought to attend, as he left Mr Parsims' cottage, he decided that the matter of Miss Mifford took top priority on his to-do list.

After all, he told himself, if there was a murderer on the loose in Plumpton, it was his duty to track them down as speedily as possible. He owed it to his tenants, he reassured himself, unwilling to admit even to himself that his mind was not filled with the great and good of Plumpton, but an image of a pretty young woman in a hideous mob-cap instead.

As he urged his steed forward toward Stephen Browne's holding, Henry's hand within his glove burned. It had only briefly brushed off Miss Mifford's own gloved hand, but in all his thirty years, Henry had never felt so moved by such a small connection. A pity that Miss Mifford had not seemed similarly affected; she had not even seemed to note his brief touch and had been all business thereafter.

Perhaps she was a bluestocking, Henry mused, as he guided his horse down Cheddar Lane, toward the Brownes' farmhouse. There were a few such creatures in London; ladies who eschewed men in favour of literature and highbrow pursuits. Having spent far too much time in White's--where after a certain hour the calibre of conversation was really quite low--Henry was not entirely sure he blamed these bluestockings for their choice.

A towering wych elm marked the entrance to the Brownes' holding, and Henry turned off the laneway onto a well-maintained track. He followed this for a minute or so, before arriving at the farmer's cottage, a single-story, yellow brick building,