A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,42

pub there as we speak."

"Wonderful," Henry sighed in frustration; he was now missing both a suspect and the constable to help him apprehend said suspect. "I ask that you would oblige me by telling him that his presence is required at the manor when he returns."

"Yes, Your Grace," Angus nodded, "If 'e can stand, I shall send him."

Just marvellous, Henry thought, as he stalked back out onto the village square. He had been all fired up to get the dirty business of capturing a murderer over and done with, now here he was at noon, with nothing exciting to fill his afternoon bar a sackful of correspondence.

Though he did have the memory of Miss Mifford clutching his hand to keep him warm, he reminded himself--and suddenly, things did not seem so bad after all.

Chapter Nine

After His Grace had galloped off, Mary had spent a few minutes mooning over him, like a smitten green-girl. She had never walked alone with a gentleman before--in fact, she had never been alone with any gentleman before--and she was astounded at how easy it had been.

She had not felt nervous, silly, or on edge in His Grace's company. To walk alongside him had felt perfectly natural, as though she had been walking with Jane or Emily. Though, of course, Jane or Emily did not unleash swarms of butterflies in her stomach when they looked at her like Northcott did.

It had been touching, as well, to learn that Northcott was more than his title; he was a man who lived, breathed, and hurt just like any other. Mary was certain that she had offered him wise counsel; men were forever bottling up their feelings, not realising that by doing so said feelings would ferment within that bottle until so much pressure built up that the cork popped off in a messy climax. Not that she would have used that analogy with Northcott, not after her disastrous "better out than in" comment, which could have only put him in mind of flatulence.

Mary blushed, squirming with embarrassment at the memory. Northcott had been kind and had carried the conversation elsewhere, to spare her blushes.

The only disappointment had come at the end of their walk; for a fleeting moment, when Northcott's eyes had flashed with what Mary had thought was desire; she had believed he was about to kiss her. The moment had passed without a kiss and Mary had been forced to accept that it was not desire which had caused Northcott's eyes to burn so bright. Perhaps it had just been indigestion, she decided, feeling most foolish for her incorrect interpretation.

The duke does not think of you that way, Mary reminded herself, as she set off along the path which Northcott had just disappeared down. He simply thought of her as an accomplice to his investigation--and not a very important one at that.

Feeling a little dejected, Mary continued her walk, absently admiring the ferns, sweet woodruff, and foxgloves which charmingly decorated the path. The trees grew thinner and Lower Plumpton came into view, looking charming as ever in the soft summer sun.

Sunlight glistened on the river as Mary passed over the bridge, and the flowers in the window boxes of the cottages were bright as any jewel. Plumpton was a treasure, Mary thought happily, and it galled her to think that Mr Parsims had tarnished its light with his nefarious deeds.

The matter of his list of victims pressed on Mary's mind. Northcott was certain that Monsieur Canet was guilty, and although Mary did not wish to question the wisdom of a duke, she wondered if there was a chance that he might be wrong.

Even if he was right and Monsieur Canet was guilty, Mary still felt a burning desire to talk with Mr Parsims' victims and let them know that they had not suffered alone.

With her mind now set, Mary squared her shoulders and set off for Mrs Walker's cottage, which stood on the easterly side of the village square.

"Miss Mifford, what a pleasant surprise!"

The young widow offered Mary a cheerful greeting as she opened the door, her eyes bright with joy that had little to do with Mary's arrival.

"Do come in," Mrs Walker said, ushering Mary inside, "You called at a most fortuitous time--I have just made a cake."

Mary followed Mrs Walker inside, down a small, neat hallway to a parlour room which was decorated in varying shades of pastel. The furniture was a little old--the velvet chaise which Mary sat on had been patched in

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