Page 10 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
Lucian turned his head and sighted three gentlemen standing at the bar, amongst them Miss Hughes’ father.
“They don’t look like ruffians,” Lucian instinctively moved to defend Mr Hughes.
“They’re not,” the viscount agreed, “But each one of them stands to suffer if Silas proceeds with his plan to divert the stream.”
Indeed, an expectant hush had fallen over the pub as the patrons all glanced—none too discreetly—between Silas Hardwick and his companion, and the newcomers.
At first it appeared that peace would prevail, as the new group took their pints and retreated to a seat in the corner. However, once they spotted Silas, the fragile calm proved temporary.
“You’ve got some nerve thinking you can drink in here, Hardwick,” one of the men roared, as he pushed back his chair to stalk over to Hardwick’s table.
“Now, now, we don’t want any trouble, do we Mr Marrowbone?” Angus called anxiously from behind the bar. He turned to look for the constable, who had slipped from his seat and was half-way toward the door.
“Indeenin we don’t,” Mr Marrowbone answered weakly, his gaze fixed longingly on the exit he had so nearly reached.
Mr Hughes rose from his chair to join his friend, and placed a restraining hand on the younger man’s shoulder.
“He’s not worth your trouble, Jem,” he said, loud enough for the whole pub to hear the derisive tone of his voice
Silas Hardwick’s boyish face curled into an angry scowl. He jumped to his feet so quickly that his chair fell to the floor with a clatter.
“Not worth your trouble?” Hardwick questioned, with a sniff. “I’m worth more than the two of you combined. And when your farms dry up and die I’ll take great pleasure in knowing it was I who sent you both to the workhouse.”
“Now, now, Mr Hardwick. That’s uncalled for,” Silas’ small, bespectacled companion cried with a squeak.
“No one will mourn when their farms fail,” Silas ignored his friend to double-down on his threats.
“And no one will mourn when you’re six feet under, Hardwick,” Mr Hughes replied coldly. “Which is where you’re heading. Mark my words, you’ll meet your comeuppance one of these days.”
Having said his piece, Mr Hughes turned his back on Mr Hardwick, pulling his friend away with him. Jem returned to the table to join the third man from their group but Mr Hughes stayed standing.
“I’ve lost my thirst,” Lucian heard him tell his friends, before he donned his hat and left.
Once he had gone, the silence that had fallen over the pub receded and a hum of whispers took its place, as the patrons all excitedly dissected the altercation.
“Plumpton is far livelier than I had first credited,” Lucian commented, as he sipped on the last of his pint. Like Mr Hughes, his desire for another had vanished. He felt slightly queasy and unexpectedly anxious for Miss Hughes’ father.
“Let us hope that this goes no further,” Lord Crabb answered darkly.
The three men sipped on their pints a while longer, the jovial atmosphere of earlier now vanished. The argument had obviously ruined Mr Hardwick’s enjoyment too, for he and his companion departed—the former muttering loudly about buying the pub and barring all troublemakers.
Lucian, Crabb, and Northcott, waited an appropriate number of minutes after Hardwick’s departure, before they decided to call it a night.
“We’ll see you tomorrow for dinner,” Northcott said to Lord Crabb, as they bid him goodbye outside the door.
The viscount tipped his hat to them both, then took off in the opposite direction toward Upper Plumpton.
“I do hope Mr Hughes doesn’t do anything rash,” Northcott said glumly, as the two men walked—on slightly wobbly legs—through the village.
“Mr Hughes has a good head on his shoulders,” Lucian replied firmly, as though he had known the man his whole life rather than one dinner.
Northcott nodded in agreement, though his expression remained worried.
A full moon glowed high in the sky, bright amongst a tapestry of stars. Plumpton was asleep; the shops shuttered and the houses in darkness.
They walked on in silence through the village, at the bottom of which they crossed the bridge. The London Road stretched ahead of them, dark, empty, and slightly ominous.
Lucian was just about to comment that they should have taken the carriage, when a loud shot rang out ahead shattering the stillness of the night.
