Page 24 of A Victim, A Viscount, And Miss Mifford
When Ivo had first arrived at Plumpton Hall, he had brought with him but a single valise, for he had believed his stay would last no longer than a week. Since his inception as Viscount Plumpton, Newman had sent to London for the rest of his wardrobe, which had arrived that very morning, just in time for his dinner with the Miffords.
"I am not at all taken with the red, my lord," the valet sighed, as Ivo finished buttoning up a silk waistcoat of deep ruby, "Perhaps you should try the green again? It brings out the colour of your eyes."
"I do not think the Miffords shall refuse to dine with me if my eyes are not shown to their best advantage," Ivo grumbled in return, though he did concede to Newman's request by removing the offending ruby waistcoat.
His temper was rather frayed, having spent an extra hour at his toilette at the valet's insistence, yet Ivo was secretly as invested in his appearance as Newman was. He had never felt the urge to peacock for a lady's benefit before, but tonight he was overcome by a strong urge to do just that. As Newman turned to fetch the green waistcoat, Ivo surreptitiously checked his appearance in the mirror, flexing his biceps so that they bulged against the linen of his shirt.
"Ahem. Here it is, my lord."
Ivo flushed at having been caught preening and took the proffered waistcoat with a scowl.
"Thank you, Newman," he said, as he threw the garment on and began buttoning it, "That will be all."
"Your coat is hanging on the back of the door," the valet replied, his eyes dancing, "And, the green truly does bring out the colour of your eyes, my lord."
Sensing that he was treading on thin ice, Newman dashed from the room, leaving Ivo to finish dressing alone. Once he had donned his coat and straightened his cravat, Ivo gave his appearance one last sweeping glance in the mirror. Newman had washed, scrubbed, and shaved him into a much more presentable version of himself, Ivo thought with a smile. After a decade at sea, Ivo's grooming standards were far beneath what was expected of the ton. His tolerance for a five o'clock shadow and hair that curled at the collar had necessitated the hiring of Newman, and though the valet's fussing irked at times, Ivo would be the first to admit that he would be lost without him. Well, perhaps not lost, but definitely hairier.
Downstairs, the staff were racing this way and that, their work overseen by Allen. The butler's expression was most displeased, as he cast a critical eye around the entrance hall, and it became even more so as he saw Ivo approach.
"My lord," Allen sniffed, "I hope you find everything to your liking."
"Er, yes," Ivo replied, wondering if he was expected to run a gloved finger along the balustrade to check for dust, "All ship-shape here. How do things fare in the kitchen?"
"Mrs Aiken is in somewhat of a panic, given that no one has entertained here for at least three decades, but I am certain that she will triumph. As you had no ideas for the menu, she settled on pheasant."
"Splendid," Ivo answered Allen's coldness with forced friendliness. The butler, who had been so welcoming on Ivo's original arrival, had notably cooled since Lord Crabb's death. If the man believed Ivo a murderer, then Ivo could not really fault him his reserve, though it did rankle.
A call went up to say that the Miffords had been sighted coming up the driveway, relieving Ivo of any further obligation to speak with Allen. He took his place near the front door, ready to greet his guests when they arrived.
Mr Mifford was the first through the door, wearing a congenial smile. He was followed by a small, plump woman—who was introduced as Mrs Mifford—and she in turn was followed by her three daughters.
"Emily, Eudora, and Jane," Mr Mifford listed off their names cheerfully.
"Delighted to make your acquaintance, ladies," Ivo bowed in their direction and as he rose, he caught sight of a faint blush on Miss Mifford's cheeks.
"My eldest daughter Mary could not come," Mrs Mifford interjected, "She is in London for the little season with her husband, the duke."
Even a deaf man could have heard the emphasis Mrs Mifford placed on the word "duke" and Ivo noticed Miss Mifford wincing with embarrassment behind her mama.
"What a pity, though I am sure our paths will cross in the future," Ivo opined, hastily changing the subject, "Would you care to follow me to the dining room?"
"Lead the way," Mr Mifford agreed, before muttering in an aside barely audible to even Ivo "If she is eating, she won't be speaking."
The "she" Mr Mifford referred to, Ivo soon discovered, was Mrs Mifford. As the group walked from the entrance hall to the dining room, the vicar's wife kept up a steady stream of commentary on everything and anything that popped into her head.
"I do like what you have done with the place, my lord," Mrs Mifford offered, as they reached the dining room, "It looks so different to the last time that we called."
"I do not think anything has changed," Ivo replied, with confusion. He had not yet begun to redecorate any of the rooms in the Hall.
"The fire is lit," Eudora, the youngest of the sisters—who was inexplicably dressed like an elderly dowager duchess—commented astutely.
"And the table is set for supper," Emily, Miss Mifford's other sister, commented dreamily, "Lord Crabb never invited us in to dine, that's probably why it looks so odd."
"Nonsense, dearest," Mrs Mifford hushed, "Of course Lord Crabb invited us to dine, why would he not, when he was so fond of us all?"
"I really don't think he was—ouch!"
Miss Emily shot her mother a wounded look, though Mrs Mifford's gaze was cast innocently upward toward the ceiling, as though she found the wood panelling most interesting.
