A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,58

but she was roundly ignored by her two sisters.

Upstairs, Mary changed into her kid-skin boots and donned her finest spencer jacket over her walking dress. She fervently wished that she had time to change into something nicer, but she reasoned that it was better to arrive to an audience with a duchess on time.

The front door was open when Mary barrelled down the stairs. Outside, she could see Jane holding the reins of Daisy, the family horse--or nag, if one was being honest--who was rigged up to the gig.

"Thank you!" Mary called, grabbing the reins from Jane and leaping up into the seat. With a flick of her wrists, she urged Daisy into a fast trot, and they set off for Northcott Manor.

Mary stared straight ahead as she drove the gig through the village, afraid that if she spotted someone she knew that they would try detain her. Over the bridge they went, down through Lower Plumpton and past Mrs Wickling's cottage, until they were out on the road to Bath.

A grey ceiling of cloud had formed in the sky above, dark and heavy with rain. Mary said a silent prayer as she passed St Mary's that the rain would hold off until she arrived at Northcott Manor and God saw fit to listen.

The first drops of rain began to fall as the gates of Northcott Manor came into view, and they continued to fall in a haphazard manner--a drop here, a drop there--as Mary drove up the tree-lined drive. As a footman rushed out to greet her, the shower finally began in earnest, though by this time Mary was comfortably sheltered from it by a handsome, liveried young man who kindly held an umbrella over her head.

"Best hurry inside, Miss Mifford," the footman urged her, his words accompanied by a roll of thunder.

He escorted her up the sweep of steps and through a set of double doors, which led to the entrance hall. Mary tried not to gasp as she noted the high ceiling--as cavernous as the one in Bath Abbey--the marbled tiles upon the floor, and the grand, gilded staircase which led upstairs.

"May I take your coat, Miss Mifford?"

A stoic butler materialised from thin air to take Mary's spencer, which she handed over reluctantly as it had hidden the worst aspects of her dress. He then led Mary from the hall to the parlour room--or the blue parlour room, as he called it, which indicated there was more than one--to where the Dowager Duchess of Northcott was waiting.

"Miss Mifford, you are welcome," the duchess greeted, waving a hand to indicate that Mary should sit.

Mary obeyed, depositing herself on the velvet Queen Anne, taking care to cross her ankles and keep her hands neatly folded in her lap.

"I was wondering why you had not called," the duchess said, her eyes--blue like Northcott's--dancing with merriment, "Until I recalled that I am a duchess and that no one calls on me unless explicitly summoned with an exact time and date. I must commend your social nous, my dear."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Mary replied, feeling a prickle of guilt for taking praise for something quite accidental. In the excitement of all that had been happening, Mary had forgotten her fleeting meeting with the duchess, though she did have the "social nous" not to reveal this. The Dowager Duchess, Mary guessed, was not a woman who would take being forgotten well.

"Now," the duchess continued, as a stream of maids bearing trays of tea and cake filed into the room, "I want to learn all about you, Miss Mifford. I am most curious to learn about the young lady who has rendered my dear Henry so smitten."

It took Mary a moment to realise that the Henry to whom she referred was Northcott. That the duke had a given name had never occurred to Mary, though now that she knew it, she found that she much preferred it to Northcott. Henry was a charming moniker; strong and solid, but with a hint of sweetness--quite like the duke himself, if Mary was honest. This thought led Mary to reminisce about the kiss which they had shared the night before, which had certainly been sweet, she thought dreamily.

"My dear?"

The duchess' voice cut through Mary's dazed recollection of the passionate kiss she had shared with Northcott, and she dragged her attention back to the room. The maids had set out tea in dainty china cups upon the table, alongside plates of iced-fancies, sticky currant buns, and rout cake.

It