A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,33

none the better for the shortcut.

At the inn, they found that Mary had sacrificed her footwear for nought, as the Hargreaves were away shopping in Evesham.

"Please tell them to call to the vicarage when they return," Mary instructed Edward, who gave an agreeable nod.

"Yes, Miss Mifford," he parroted politely, before flushing a little, "And please pass my regards on to Miss Emily."

"I shall," Mary promised, thinking that she would do no such thing. Emily was the softest of the three sisters, and young men were forever placing their hearts in her hands, aware that she would not damage them--or, more importantly--their pride. Poor Emily was so kind that she would say yes to marrying the first man who asked her if they were not kept away from her.

No, Mary would not be passing on Edward's regards, she thought stubbornly. Though she was grateful to him for obliging her, that gratitude was not worth her mother's ire. If Mrs Mifford thought that Mary had facilitated a romance between her third daughter and a footman in any way, there would be a second murder in Plumpton.

"What shall we do now?" Jane queried, once they were back out on the village green.

"I don't know about you two," Sarah replied, as the bells of the church began to peal the hour, "But I must away home. Alex said he would be at the crossroads at a quarter-past, and that he would wait only a minute. I would love to stay and help out, but I'm afraid I would also love not to have to walk home."

Sarah bid her two friends goodbye, and when she spotted Mrs Canards on the far side of the green, she pulled Mary into a hug.

"I wish to let the old bat know whose side I'm on," Sarah whispered in Mary's ear, before releasing her and departing with a cheery goodbye.

Mary felt tears of gratitude sting her eyes; Sarah was a good friend, who had gone out of her way to display her loyalty so the whole village might know it. Across the green, Mary could see Mrs Canards scowling with annoyance. It must have been very disappointing for her to have seen Mary supported by a friend, instead of strung up in the stocks as she would have preferred.

Not that Plumpton had stocks anymore. Though, who knew, at the next meeting of the Ladies' Society, Mrs Canards might petition to have them reinstalled.

Mary linked her arm through Jane's to begin the short walk back to Primrose Cottage. They had not taken more than a dozen steps when another--most unexpected--lady decided she also wished to throw the weight of her support behind Mary.

The Duchess of Northcott, wearing a turban of ostrich feathers which fluttered in the wind, came haring down High-Street in a curricle, the likes of which Plumpton had never seen. The beautiful vehicle drew to a stop beside Mary and Jane--the latter giving a quiet whistle of admiration at seeing a lady hold the reins--and Her Grace smiled down beatifically at Mary.

"Miss Mifford," she called, loud enough so that all might hear, "I wish to take tea with you. Do call on me next week, when you are free."

"Yes, Your Grace," Mary stuttered, and with that answer, Her Grace took off again with the flick of a whip.

"I cannot believe I have been invited to tea with a duchess," Mary whispered, chancing a glance over her shoulder to see if Mrs Canards had heard.

Judging by the puce of her face--the universally recognised colour of unexpected irritation--Mary guessed that she had. Which was perfect, for it meant the whole town would know in an hour.

"More a command than an invite," Jane observed, but Mary paid no heed. A duchess could do as she pleased, in Mary's opinion, not for a second even contemplating that she might one day hold that title.

Northcott must have petitioned his mother to show her support, she thought, feeling a small flutter of pleasure in her stomach, which she quickly tried to quell.

His Grace was an admirable man, and it would be foolish of her to take a kind act on his part to mean that he felt anything toward her except his ducal obligations. Mary recalled the dull pain of disappointment that she had felt upon leaving London and attempted to use the echo of that hurt to quash any hope which had momentarily fluttered in her breast.

It worked wonders; the burgeoning feeling of excitement within her died an instant death as she imagined