A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,47

needed to censure from her father's ears. Not only was she the custodian of Mrs Walker's and Mrs Wickling's secrets, but she was also the custodian of her own--she could not tell her father how much time she had spent alone with Northcott, in case he disapproved.

In a halting manner, Mary began to explain all that had transpired to her father; Mr Parsims' blackmail of both Mrs Walker and Mrs Wickling, that Mrs Walker had finally found happiness with Canet but that it might soon be snatched away, and the awful hypocrisy of Mrs Wickling and Mrs Canards.

"It's not fair," Mary surmised, "Poor Mrs Walker is to be punished again, when she is so good, while Mrs Wickling can carry on with her appalling behaviour."

"Life is not fair," Mr Mifford replied sagely, as he sipped upon his brandy, "Well, to the untrained eye it can seem that way, at least."

Mary sipped on her own brandy--though only once, for it was vile--and waited for her father to continue.

"In my line of work, we often focus too much on punishment in the afterlife, and forget that people can be punished by their actions in the here and now too," Mr Mifford said, his beard twitching as he smiled, "You think that Mrs Walker is the only one suffering, but think how Mrs Canards and Mrs Wickling suffer every day. The only friend they have is each other."

"Not even," Mary replied, thinking of how Mrs Wickling had sabotaged her friend's roses out of spite, "They're both too horrid to show even each other any kindness."

"There you are," Mr Mifford waved a hand, "Is that punishment enough for you? Or would you rather God was bit more Old Testament in his punishment?"

"No," Mary shook her head, "There has been quite enough blood shed in Plumpton."

"As for Mrs Walker," Mr Mifford continued, "If Monsieur Canet does turn out to be guilty of murder, I can only say that she has perhaps had a lucky escape."

"Oh?" Mary raised an eyebrow, but her father was not to be swayed.

"A woman who falls for a rake once, is a sure target for a second one," Mr Mifford said, before changing the subject, "And I will speak to Mr Fairweather; though this is not the first time I have been asked to talk to him regarding this, and I don't want to give you false hope that it will be the last. If you marry, Mary, I implore you to please choose your husband carefully."

"I will not marry now, father," Mary replied, with a heavy sigh, "I am far too old and now fully committed to a life of spinsterhood."

"Is that so?" Mr Mifford reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a letter, sealed with a red-wax stamp, "If that is the case then, would you rather not read this letter which came for you from Northcott Manor?"

"Oh, no," Mary jumped from her chair to retrieve the missive from his hand, "I mean, it might have important information about Northcott's investigation."

"Indeed," Mr Mifford looked terribly amused.

Mary could not bear to read Northcott's words under her father's knowing eye, so she excused herself and ran to her bedroom, where she might read it in private. With trembling hands, Mary opened the letter, quickly scanning its contents.

Miss Mifford,

It has been brought to my attention that Monsieur Canet did leave his rooms on the night of Mr Parsims' murder, despite stating otherwise. I shall confront him this evening with Mr Marrowbone as my witness. I feel we have our man.

N.

Oh, Mary sighed. She was both glad that the wretched situation had reached its end and sad, at the same time, for Mrs Walker, whose hopes for the future would be dashed once again. She pondered life's wretchedness for a good five minutes until, to her shame, she picked up the letter to read the duke's intimate signature once more.

"N," she whispered aloud, falling onto her bed to gaze up at the ceiling.

Having never received a letter from a gentleman, Mary was uncertain if they all signed their names this way, or had this abbreviation been a particular sign of Northcott's affection toward her? And, he had not said "the" man, he had said "our" man, as though Canet was something which belonged to them both. Though, Mary thought with a frown, perhaps that wasn't so romantic after all.

Despite all her insistence that she wished to be a spinster, Mary allowed herself a few minutes to daydream about the duke. A few minutes