A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,62

rude. Something must have happened, he decided, setting off to the Blue Parlour in search of his mama.

"Hn-gry."

As Henry opened the door of the parlour, his mother leapt to her feet. Her mouth was filled with cake, though despite this she still tried to speak.

"Ig-Wagn-iffifin."

"Chew," Henry commanded, "And for heaven's sake, don't choke. I need you alive to explain yourself."

"I wasn't interfering," Cecilia said, when she had finally swallowed the cake, "Well, I suppose I was a little. I wanted to see what this Miss Mifford was like, Henry, since you have been so secretive. At first, I thought her a real diamond of the first water--she passed the cake challenge most admirably."

"The cake challenge?" Henry allowed himself to be momentarily distracted.

"Yes, you set out plates and plates of yummy treats for your callers, to test their self-restraint--no one likes a glutton, well a public one at least--and Miss Mifford handled herself most admirably."

"Then what happened?" Henry pressed, too concerned about Mary to marvel at the length to which society ladies went to torture one another.

"Then, I bid her tell me how you both met," Cecilia allowed a frown to mar her features, "For you were not very forthcoming with information and I am always taken by tales of a charming first meeting between sweethearts."

Henry, recalling the knock he took to his head, was not entirely certain that charming was the word he would use to describe his first encounter with Miss Mifford.

"I told her to start at the very beginning," Cecilia continued, "And then she went rather strange."

"Strange how?"

"A little dazed for a moment, then a look crossed her face--the same one your father used to make when he had found something that he had lost--and she said that Mr Fairweather didn't kill anyone. Then she rushed from the room. Honestly, Henry, she is very pretty, but I do think she might be a tad deranged. Though, I suppose, there is a history of insanity in the family tree and she's not so mad that she's fit for Bedlam and if you were to marry her, I could have a grandchild by spring."

Usually, Henry might have been amused to listen to his mother talk herself in circles, but not today. His mind was elsewhere, as he tried to fathom what it was that had occurred to Mary and why it had sent her off in such a hurry.

If Mr Fairweather was not guilty of the murders, then who on earth did Mary think was?

Outside in the entrance hall came the sound of a man irritably arguing with Bentley, which distracted Henry from his musings.

"Yes, I know he's a duke, and that he's very important, but I have patients to call on," Henry heard Dr Bates bluster, "Will you please give him this and tell him that it is the knife which I pulled out of Monsieur Canet's neck yesterday evening."

"Splendid," Bentley replied, his voice as pleasant as it would be if Bates had said he was handing him a quill.

Henry, who had heard enough, strode from the parlour to the hall to take a look at the knife.

"Your Grace," Dr Bates started at the sight of Henry, his bluster fading, "I just called to drop you in the knife which was used to kill Canet--well, it is a material cutter, if truth be told . Mr Bentley did say to wait, in case you wished to discuss matters over a brandy--I'm sure you have quite the stock--and I had said that I needed to be on my way, but seeing as you're here..."

Henry held up a hand to silence the physician, his mind whirring urgently.

"A material cutter, you say?" he pressed.

"Yes, Mrs Bates would have liked to keep it, for it is of a professional quality, but when I told her of its origins, she found that she was not so keen."

A material cutter. An embroidered handkerchief. A woman's voice arguing with Parsims in the rectory.

"Have someone saddle my horse," Henry ordered Bentley, "Did anyone see in which direction Miss Mifford went?"

"She turned left onto the Bath Road, headed toward the turnpike," Dr Bates offered, "I take it we're not having that brandy?"

Henry did not reply, for he was already halfway out the door by the time the doctor had finished speaking. In the courtyard, a groomsman was leading out a freshly saddled Arab hot-blood, whilst a footman followed with a mounting block.

"I am headed for the turnpike," Henry told the footman, as he neatly hopped from mounting block