A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,59

was enough to feed an army, though Mary noted that Her Grace took only a sliver of rout cake, and she followed suit. It would not do for the duchess to report back to her son that Miss Mifford was a glutton--though if left alone for even a second in the room, Mary did plan to tuck an iced fancy into her pocket for later.

"Yes," the duchess began, as she lifted a cup of tea to her lips, "My son is quite smitten with you and, not to be gauche, I can see why."

"Oh, he is not smitten," Mary replied modestly, "I swear he is not, Your Grace. He is merely being attentive to the duties of his seat and I am grateful for his help."

"His duties," Her Grace gave what sounded like a snort of incredulity, "My dear, my son has many duties, and I can inform them that he has never attended to them as faithfully as he has attended to you. I have not seen him so happy in years and it is you who must take the credit. Now, tell me how you first met. I always find that it's best to start at the very beginning."

Mary tried not to wince as she recalled her disastrous first encounter with the duke. How could she explain to Her Grace that the first time that she had met Northcott, she had lobbed a missile at his head? Her Grace might then, Mary thought wildly, deduce that Northcott's interest in her was due only to concussion--and she might very well be right.

Despite her shame, Mary could not help but picture the scene; the duke peering in the window of the rectory, Mary picking up a stone to gallantly defend Mr Parsims' property, the sound of shouting coming from within.

That was it!

Mary's eyes flew open, her mouth an "O" of surprise as realisation dawned on her.

"Are you alright, dear?" the duchess questioned, looking worried, "Is it the rout cake? Cook is rather frugal with the butter; I had hoped to entice that French chef at The King's Head to prepare our pastries, but then he went and got himself murdered by that awful Mr Fairweather."

"Mr Fairweather didn't kill anyone," Mary replied, jumping from her seat, "It wasn't him at all. Excuse me, please, I have to go. Oh! I hope I'm not too late."

Mary did not glance back as she fled the room, though she was certain that the duchess was furious at her abrupt departure; one did not remove oneself from a duchess' presence unless one had been dismissed. Mary, however, had no time to care for social strictures as she raced through the entrance hall, past the butler, and out into the courtyard. Mercifully, the footman was still standing outside holding onto Daisy's reins, his face a picture of annoyance.

"My apologies, Miss," he grumbled, as Mary approached, "The groomsmen are tardy today, as they always are when there is inclement weather."

"Doesn't matter, never mind," Mary parroted, snatching the reins from his hands, "I'm in a rush."

"It's raining," the footman protested, "There's a terrible storm coming, Miss."

Mary did not listen to his words of caution. She flicked the reins, urged Daisy into a brisk trot--her fastest pace--and hared off down the driveway. At the gates, she saw Dr Bates approaching from the direction of Plumpton, but she did not stop to chat. She veered out onto the road, heading in the opposite direction, heedless of anything else except snaring the murderer.

As she drove the gig along the Bath Road, Mary chided herself for her stupidity. How on earth had she managed to overlook the very first clue presented to her? Perhaps it was because it had surfaced before Mr Parsims' murder and she had been too taken by the rector's list to recall it. Though the list itself had been a clue, but Mary and Northcott had been too blind to see it.

Canet. Walker. Wickling. Fairweather.

Four names, each with no prefix; though Mary and Northcott had seen fit to ascribe one themselves--the wrong one.

Mary was shivering now and soaked to the bone, but she urged Daisy onward, hoping against hope that she had not missed her opportunity. As she approached the Hangman's Bridge, which crossed the River Churn at its widest point, she spotted a figure halfway across it.

"Mrs Fairweather," Mary called out into the rain, "Stop!"

As Mary approached the bridge, Daisy gave a whinny of distress; the old girl was taken out mostly for pleasant jaunts and was