A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,7

he had been addressing his imagined Mary as Miss Mifford.

"Lovely young woman," Henry said curtly, as he rose to a stand, "She commends herself very well."

Lord Crabb muttered something in reply, which sounded very much like "Well, one of them has to", but he quickly spoke again before Henry had a chance to question him.

"Thank you for your call, Northcott," Lord Crabb said, creaking to a stand, "I would return the favour, but alas I do not travel far these days."

"There's no need to call," Henry was very quick to assure, "Send word when you are ready to discuss my plans further, and I shall call on you."

With all the distraction of Mr Parsims and Miss Mifford, Henry had forgotten that his original goal had been having Lord Crabb agree to the construction of the water mill. Anxiety gnawed at him as he made his way from the grand house to the courtyard, where a groom had his horse waiting for him. There was much work to be done in Plumpton, to assure that his tenants would continue to prosper as the world around them changed.

Henry's mind was filled with thoughts of industrialisation, the perils of agriculture, and the ever lingering threat of sedition and rebellion, but still--despite these morbidities--he somehow managed to take a detour on the way home, past the rectory beside the Church of St Anne. As he trotted past, he kept his gaze forward, but his eyes and ears alert for any sign of Miss Mifford.

From the kitchen gardens to the rear, Henry could hear the sound of singing and laughter, though, lamentably, that was all. He had longed, perhaps, for a quick glimpse of Miss Mifford, tending to roses in a white dress and flower trimmed bonnet.

The sound of her singing would have to suffice, Henry thought, ignoring that he was not certain if it was the eldest Miss Mifford he had heard. He stored the memory away for later consumption and continued on his journey to Northcott Manor, humming under his breath.

Upon his arrival, he was greeted by a flurry of activity. Servants dashed here and there, fetching this and carrying that. Upon their faces, they each wore an expression of mild panic and did not seem to notice that their master had returned.

Henry frowned; there was only one person who might cause such turmoil amongst his usually calm staff. But, no, he assured himself, it was impossible--

"Henry!"

"Mother."

Henry's greeting lacked the excitement and warmth of that offered by Cecilia, Dowager Duchess of Northcott, but true to form, his mother failed to notice his lack of enthusiasm. Her Grace was an exceedingly confident woman, who would never even think to imagine that her presence was anything less than an assured blessing on those in its receipt.

"What a coincidence," the duchess continued, tripping down the grand staircase toward him, "I was halfway to Edinburgh when I felt the Cotswolds calling me and ordered the driver to turn around. I had absolutely no idea that you were here, dear."

After thirty years of study, Henry was somewhat fluent in his mother's language of half-truths. He did not doubt that she had been halfway to Edinburgh, for Henry had implied that was where he would go when last they had spoken. He highly doubted, however, that the Cotswolds had miraculously called for her, and assumed that she had gotten wind of his actual destination from a source along the road.

"You must throw a house party," Cecilia continued, linking her arm through that of her son and guiding him toward the drawing-room, "To celebrate your return to your seat."

"Perhaps I might," Henry replied, rather struck by the idea. A house party might last weeks, and his devious brain was deducing that he might ride past Miss Mifford's home countless times if he were to stay in residence at Northcott Manor a little longer than he had planned.

"Basilweather, Wolfeton, Harris," Henry began to list those of his friends who might enjoy a few weeks hunting, "Morgan--"

"My dear," Cecilia interrupted, giving a slight shudder of distaste, "You cannot fill the house with bachelors. No, I was thinking of Lady Brynn and her three nieces, the Countess Hertford and her daughter, Lady Annabelle--she came out just this year and is quite the beauty. Perhaps Lord and Lady Jersey; they have a daughter..."

Henry halted mid-step and cast his mother a quelling glare; well, as quelling as he could muster, for she was after all his mother.

"Mama," he said, squaring his shoulders in an attempt