A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,25

with a roof of bright new thatch.

His arrival had not gone unnoticed; from inside, Henry could hear the sounds of squawking and panic, before the door was flung open and a woman--Mrs Browne, he presumed--emerged.

"Your Grace," she called, near bowing in deference whilst simultaneously attempting to tuck her hair under her cap, "Mr Browne will be out in a moment, he's just making himself presentable."

Henry was mildly pleased to have finally been greeted with the deference owed to his title, and so he offered Mrs Browne a smile, which sent her blushing.

"I shall not take up too much of your husband's time," Henry offered, as he dismounted.

His boots hit the muddy ground--work for his valet later--and Mrs Browne flushed.

"I am sorry," she said, glancing at the mucky yard, "If I had known you were coming, I would have--"

"Cobbled the yard?" Henry grinned, before waving a lazy hand, "Please, there is no need to apologise. I am a country man at heart."

Mrs Browne lifted a hand to her mouth, as though hiding a smile. Henry supposed that in his Hessian boots, spotless buckskin breeches, and merino wool coat that he did not look the part of a country man, but he had not lied. If required, he could roll up his sleeves and muck in with lambing, threshing, or harvesting, as well as the next man.

He was saved from having to fill an awkward silence by the arrival of Mr Browne, whose ears were dusted with soap suds and whose shirt was startlingly clean in comparison to his boots, which were caked in muck.

"Your Grace," Mr Browne stumbled a little as he walked toward him, "To what do we owe the honour?"

He spoke very formally and slowly, as though he had been rehearsing the line, which Henry supposed he had. It wasn't every day that a duke deigned to call on a farmer.

"I wish a word with you if you please," Henry replied, and Browne paled.

Was it guilt which made him turn so ghostly grey?

"Shall I brew some tea?" Mrs Browne croaked, but Henry shook his head.

"No, thank you," he replied, not wishing to discuss matters of murder in front of the fairer sex, "Perhaps Mr Browne, you might indulge me in a walk around the farm? We might inspect some of the lands while we talk."

"Yes, Your Grace," the farmer nodded, before leading Henry away from the farmhouse, wearing the expression of a man walking to the gallows.

They moved in silence, for a few minutes, across green fields dotted with sheep. Henry absently noted the new fences, the freshly dug drainage channels--for this close to the river the land was marshy--and the general air of order, as they walked through Browne's land.

"Please, Your Grace," Mr Browne eventually stuttered, "I can bear your silence no longer. Mr Silks had said that he would put in a kindly word with you about my arrears, but if you have decided to evict me, I would rather know now."

Oh, dear. Henry had taken several meetings with his estate agent since his return, but not once had Mr Browne's arrears come up in conversation. As Mr Silks was an excellent agent, and as the matters they had already attended to had been of the utmost importance, Henry deduced that Mr Silks had not mentioned anything yet as Mr Browne's arrears were not so great and his chances of repaying them were high.

"I have not come to evict you," Henry said firmly, and Mr Browne visibly sagged with relief.

"I have, however," Henry continued sternly, "Come to discuss the matter of Mr Parsims' murder with you."

A brief grin crossed Mr Browne's face, though he hid it quickly.

"Terrible business," the farmer said, rather unconvincingly.

"Yes," Henry frowned, "And I am trying to deduce who did it. You had a rather public altercation with Mr Parsims, did you not? An altercation in which you threatened to kill him."

"I did, Your Grace," Mr Browne confirmed, his face stony, his eyes looking not at Henry but into the past, "The man set a dog loose amongst my pregnant ewes."

"You suspect he did," Henry corrected him, but Mr Browne shook his head stubbornly.

"Look around," he said, gesturing a thick arm at the nearby fences, "There's not a fence that needs mending on this farm, never has been, for I know that a lost lambing season can ruin a man. In my forty years of farming, I've never had a flock attacked, then the week after my run-in with Mr Parsims, a dog miraculously