A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,41

mounting his stallion.

"I shall send word on how I fare with Canet," Henry said, feeling imperious as he looked down on Miss Mifford from his saddle.

"I would be much obliged, Your Grace," she replied, her tone now as formal as Henry's own.

Henry touched the brim of his hat in goodbye and cantered away from Miss Mifford, toward the village, desperately trying to push away the thought that he had missed out on what might have been his best--and only--opportunity to kiss Miss Mifford.

Regret made him irritable, and when he reached The King's Head to find that Canet was not there, his temper flared.

"What possible place does a chef have to travel to?" Henry grumbled to Edward, the footman, who seemed to reside permanently in the inn's entrance hall.

"The market in Stroud, Your Grace," Edward answered, apologetically, "Monsieur likes to select the game-birds himself; he does not trust the others."

"I'm sure he does not," Henry replied, thinking that the Frenchman was probably propped up on a bar somewhere in the market town, his shopping long since done.

"Shall I tell him you called?" Edward enquired, but Henry shook his head.

"No," he added, for emphasis. Perhaps it was fortuitous that Canet was out, for Henry was beginning to think it foolish of him to have arrived alone to extract a confession from the cook. It would be best if he were to return later, with Marrowbone in tow.

"Thank you, Edward," Henry dismissed the footman who had been hovering uncertainly before him, "That will be all."

"Your Grace," Edward gave a bow, before hurrying off to deal with two guests who had just come down from their room.

Henry turned to leave the inn, lest the urge to visit the restaurant overcame him, but before he had a chance to slip out the door, a maid approached him.

"Yes?" Henry said, once he realised that the girl's silence was not intentional and she was waiting for his permission to speak.

"Your Grace," the maid bobbed a curtsy, "I have something I need to tell you."

The girl glanced around the entrance hall, as though to make sure that no one was listening. Once she was satisfied that Edward was too busy to make note of her and that the other two guests--an elderly couple--were involved in a squabble, she continued on.

"Edward said that you wished to know if Monsieur Canet had left his rooms on the night of Mr Parsims' murder," the girl whispered in a rush, "I saw him, Your Grace, sneaking back in just after eleven."

"Did you not think to tell Edward about this?" Henry queried, raising an eyebrow.

The girl flushed red, her expression crestfallen. She bowed her head, looked at her feet, and mumbled something indiscernible to her boots.

"I didn't catch that," Henry replied, a little irritated by her carry-on.

"The reason that I witnessed him sneak back in," the maid raised her head, her eyes pleading with Henry for understanding, "Was because I was sneaking back in too."

Was everyone in Plumpton harbouring secrets? From the maid to Mrs Wickling, the whole town appeared to be involved in subterfuge, Henry thought with alarm. The Cotswolds were supposed to be restful, but they were just as bad as London by the looks of things.

"I can assure you that you will not suffer any repercussions for sharing this with me," Henry advised the girl, before adopting a paternal tone, "But you must do your utmost to keep out of trouble, Miss--?"

"Delilah," the maid smiled, unaware of the connotations her name brought.

"Yes. Well. Do take care of yourself," Henry instructed, "And do not tell anyone that we have spoken."

"Yes, Your Grace," Delilah nodded, before flitting away to continue on with her work.

Once outside, Henry exhaled a deep breath and wished that he was alone, so that he might punch the sky in celebration. He had Canet by the proverbial profiteroles, he thought with triumph. There was no way the Frenchman could wriggle his way out of things now that he had been caught lying not once, but twice.

With a spring in his step, Henry made his way to The Ring'O'Bells, certain that the pub was where he would find Mr Marrowbone.

"'E's not 'ere, Your Grace," Angus, the inn's proprietor offered with a shrug, when Henry entered the bar to find it devoid of its favourite son.

"I wasn't aware he went anywhere else," Henry's reply was delivered through gritted teeth.

"It's market day in Stroud," Angus shrugged again, though his expression was wistful, "'E's probably spending all his hard-earned pennies in a