A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,61

that she began to struggle in earnest.

"No," she cried, as the seamstress dragged her with Herculean power toward the bridge's low stone wall, "Stop."

Below, the Churn gushed past in a roar, its waters swollen and angry. The wind howled, the rain lashed down, and Mary realised that she was about to become Mrs Fairweather's next victim.

Chapter Twelve

Miss Mifford was in great danger and Henry had to save her from a fate worse than death.

This was the thought that ran through Henry's mind when he called at Primrose Cottage on his way back from Stroud, only to be told by Jane Mifford that her sister had been summoned to tea with his mother.

"She never said," Henry murmured in horror, as Miss Jane Mifford finished speaking. Why had Mary not told him last night, he wondered, then he recalled that he had kept her lips occupied with kissing.

As Henry had ridden at breakneck speed from Stroud, he was already perspiring lightly from exertion but this news--coupled with the memory of kissing Miss Mifford on this very step--sent Henry into an actual sweat. He reached into his breast pocket to search for a handkerchief, only to find that there was none there.

"Here," Jane, noting his distress, reached into her pocket and extracted one, which she offered him with a smile.

"My thanks," Henry said, as he mopped at his brow, "I shall have to have words with my valet; this is the second time in two days he has forgotten it."

"Heavens," Jane replied, sounding more amused than empathetic.

"Oh, how I suffer," Henry offered a quick laugh, as he realised that his complaint had made him sound terribly top-lofty. As he had finished with the handkerchief, he offered it back to Jane, but she refused with a shake of her head.

"It actually belongs to you," she said. Henry glanced down to see that it was the same hankie that he had stolen from Monsieur Canet's room, and he frowned in confusion.

"Mary went to return it to Mrs Walker," Jane explained, "But she said that it was not she who had given it to Monsieur. I'm afraid it rather upset her, for it does look like a lover's token."

"It does," Henry frowned, then recalled that his own love might currently be suffering her own upset at his mother's hands.

"My thanks for your help," Henry said, offering a slight bow to Jane, "I'd best hurry back to the manor."

"Yes, it wouldn't do for the cavalry to be late," he heard Jane say as he dashed down the garden path to untether his steed.

As Henry took off at a breakneck pace for Northcott Manor, the sky which had been threatening rain all day made good on its promise. The heavens opened up, soaking Henry to the bone in mere minutes, and it was a very sodden Duke of Northcott who arrived at the manor.

"I shall have the footmen prepare water for a hot bath," Bentley, the butler, said as Henry came dashing through the door.

"A hot bath?" Henry questioned; he had no time for bathing.

"Your Grace, you are..." Bentley gave a discreet cough, "...rather wet."

Henry caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the entrance hall's many gilded mirrors. Bentley, as ever, had been a paragon of tact and discretion--Henry looked like a wet dog. Possibly, he also smelled like one too. He could not meet Miss Mifford in such a state, though he also felt that he could not wait a second longer to see her.

Not just to rescue her from Cecilia's interfering, but to see her face, her smile, her beautiful lips.

"When you are finished," Bentley continued, unaware that his master was only half-present, "Dr Bates is waiting for a word with you regarding Monsieur Canet. I had him put in the Yellow Parlour."

The Yellow Parlour was the room which Bentley assigned to those guests he deemed not good enough to wait in the Blue Parlour.

"I hope you offered him something hot," Henry said, with a glance out the window at the storm raging outside.

"Your Grace," Bentley looked pained.

"Excuse me," Henry apologised with a smile, "Of course you did. And Miss Mifford? Is she in the Blue Parlour?"

"Miss Mifford?" the butler frowned with distaste, "She is no longer here, Your Grace. She leapt up half-way through tea with Her Grace and fled the premises. The maids assure me that your mother was most perplexed."

Mary had left abruptly? Henry frowned, for Miss Mifford was many things--a trifle silly, a little giddy, unendingly earnest--but she was not