Page 9 of A Victim, A Viscount, And Miss Mifford
"Lud," Ivo grimaced, "How awful; I wonder how the old man managed to ingest that?"
There was a silence, as Newman shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, before clearing his throat pointedly.
"Yes," he replied, not meeting Ivo's eye, "I think you'll find that a lot of the staff are wondering that too. Allen, the curmudgeonly old fool, is telling anyone who will listen that you were the last one to see Lord Crabb alive."
"He thinks I poisoned him?" Ivo leapt out of bed, such was the indignation he felt, "Why on earth would I do that?"
"Well," Newman flushed, "Because you, Mr Bonville, are no longer Mr Bonville. As things stand, you are now Viscount Crabb."
"I had no desire to inherit that dashed title," Ivo protested, as a weight of worry bore down heavily upon his shoulders, "Surely people will understand that I did not want—or need—to inherit this cursed estate and title? I am wealthy in my own right."
"Of course you are," Newman soothed, in a tone similar to that which one would use with a child, "I know it wasn't you—"
"—But nobody else will believe it," Ivo finished for him, with a sigh.
"What does it matter what people believe?" Newman shrugged, "You know you're innocent and that is enough; for as Viscount Crabb, you are now magistrate of Plumpton, and unlikely to convict yourself of a crime you did not commit."
"That's not much comfort, Newman," Ivo sighed, "The whole village will forever think that it was I who did Lord Crabb in."
"And half again will probably buy you a pint to say thanks," Newman clucked, "Now, you'd best get dressed. You cannot face your staff dressed only in a nightshirt."
His staff? Ivo had gone to bed believing that he would leave Plumpton and never return, only to wake and find that he was now master of its lands and a house full of staff.
It was all a little much for a man to take in, though there was one thing which Ivo—as a true English man—knew might help matters.
"Newman," he called, to the valet, who was moving toward the dressing room, "Would you fetch me a cup of tea?"
A strong cup of tea would help soothe Ivo's frazzled nerves and, once he'd drunk that he could focus on the most important matters—grappling with his new-found title, and
Chapter Three
The Mifford household awoke the next morning, unaware of the news which was about to transpire. Jane, who always woke first, was already at the breakfast table when her father arrived, holding a copy of the most recent newspaper sent over from Northcott Manor, looking bleary eyed.
"I'll make it down before you, one of these days," Mr Mifford said with a smile, as he slipped into his seat at the head of the table.
"Perhaps," Jane replied, "But even Nora cannot manage to beat me, and she is employed to do so."
"I beg you don't complain to her that you had to start the fire in the kitchen," Mr Mifford looked momentarily pained, "The last time your mother mentioned it to her, we were forced to eat burned kippers for a month."
Jane grinned; her father was many things, but he was not a man who liked to stir trouble—especially if it might interfere with his daily comforts. And, to antagonise Nora was a sure-fire way to ensure that the Miffords would be nibbling on charred foodstuffs for the foreseeable.
Nora appeared, as though she had sensed she was being discussed, with a pot of coffee in hand. She poured Mr Mifford a cup, topped up Jane's half-empty one, before disappearing to the kitchen, only to reappear a moment later with two plates of food.
"Heavens, Nora," Mr Mifford smiled, as he gazed down at his plate of eggs and blood pudding, "There is no doubt that I will pass before you, and when I reach St Peter's pearly gates, I shall sing your praises to him."
"Thank you, Mr Mifford," Nora smiled; a rare event. "Though don't go telling him I want to be a maid when I get up there; eternal rest should be restful. I've no mind to spend eternity cleaning up after others."
"I imagine," Mr Mifford replied mildly, "That you will have others to clean up after you; perhaps Mrs Mifford herself might be assigned to you as a maid."
Nora's eyes lit up with mischief at the very thought and she struggled to hide the smile which played at the corners of her lips. "Let me check in the larder, Mr Mifford," she said, "I think I might have some sausages hidden away there."
She left the room, humming happily to herself, and as the door closed behind her, Jane shot her father a withering glance.
"You are wicked, Papa," she whispered, "Not to mention blasphemous; you are a vicar, you should know better!"
"All I know," Mr Mifford shrugged, "Is that I am now being offered sausages when I was not before."
Jane snorted and turned her attention to her plate. She was ravenous, having spent half the night awake, reading Byron's newest work, which Mary had kindly sent down from London. It was still a marvel to think that her sister was now a duchess, with money to spend on whatever she liked. The Mifford family were subscribed to the circulating library in Stroud, but their catalogue was not nearly as extensive as Jane might have liked.
