Page 12 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
If Sarah hadn’t been so anxious, she might have appreciated just how gallant the earl was in that moment. His grey eyes were fierce, his strong jaw set and determined, and his broad shoulders squared as though readying for battle.
“You’ll help me investigate?” Sarah questioned, barely able to believe her luck. While Mary—actuallyallof the Mifford sisters—had experience in solving murders, they’d each been assisted in their investigations by a man. An aristocratic man at that. Sarah was well aware that a tall, strong, and wealthy gentleman would help open doors that might otherwise remain closed to a lady alone.
“From what I know of Plumpton, one can’t conduct a courtship without also conducting a murder investigation alongside it,” Lord Deverell smiled mischievously. “We must keep up appearances for Mrs Mifford’s sake.”
Sarah’s stomach gave a funny squeeze at his boyish smile, which she tried valiantly to ignore. It would not do for her to believe that the earl was in anyway interested in her, when he had explicitly stated that he simply wished to use her as shield against Mrs Mifford.
“Thank you, my lord,” she gave a curt nod. “I believe we should start by compiling a list of suspects.”
Lord Deverell’s steed took umbrage at Sarah’s brisk tone and began to stomp impatiently behind him. The earl cast the magnificent beast an annoyed glance, before turning to offer Sarah an apologetic shrug.
“Bramble believes we should start by returning him to the stable for a brush down,” he said, reaching for the horse’s reins.
Sarah stilled, disappointed that the cavalry was already retreating.
“I could probably do with a brush down too,” the earl continued, oblivious to her internal despair. “But I trust you will forgive my state ofdishabille. Wait here, Miss Hughes, I will be but a moment.”
The earl tipped his hat to her before elegantly remounting his saddle. Sarah watched as horse and rider trotted up the drive toward Northcott Manor and the stables beyond. She tried not to focus on what a dashing figure he cut on horseback but when that proved impossible, she decided to pace instead.
Her mind raked over the conversation that she had overheard that morning while standing at the kitchen door. Her father’s voice had shaken as he had told Thomas that he had left The Ring just before Hardwick to walk home alone, meaning that he had no alibi for his whereabouts at the time of the murder.
Worse, the whole village thought him the culprit, given his outburst. Even Thomas, in a voice so quiet that Sarah had been forced to strain to hear him, had asked his father if he was guilty.
Sarah’s pacing came to a halt as she recalled the terror Thomas’ question had brought. If even her own brother believed it possible, then what hope did she have of ever clearing their father’s name?
The only solace she had was in her father’s annoyed response.
“I did not,” he’d said with a snort. “But I’ll be the first to buy a pint for the man who did.”
The crisp sound of boots on gravel interrupted Sarah’s thoughts. She turned to find Lord Deverell striding briskly toward her, his coat tails billowing behind him.
As he neared, Sarah caught a definite whiff of cologne; fresh citrus with a hint of basil. Beneath his hat, his hair looked recently brushed, and the cravat at his neck was far neater than it had been when she’d last seen him.
It appeared that Lord Deverell had engaged in a swift toilette. Sarah resisted rolling her eyes; there was no end to the vanity of the aristocracy.
“Shall we?” the earl gestured toward the gate in suggestion.
Sarah nodded and took off at a brisk pace. The earl fell into step beside her, his long legs easily matching her speed.
“There’s a walk beside the river that is charming at this time of year,” Sarah said, veering left as they exited the gate. It was also far quieter than the main road; Sarah did not want to be spotted walking alone with the earl. She had enough to deal with, without adding idle gossip about her love life to the mix.
They walked in silence for a few moments, as Sarah led the Earl of Ashford through a small clearing in the hedgerow to the path that ran alongside the river Churn.
“A charming vista indeed,” Lord Deverell commented as they emerged from the thicket, picking a thorny branch from the sleeve of his coat.
“I fear your wardrobe shall never recover from its skirmishes with the arboretum of Plumpton,” Sarah commented, hiding a smile.
“My valet enjoys a challenge,” he assured her. “Now, shall we get down to the business at hand?”
Sarah nodded shyly in agreement, the mention of his valet reminding her of the deep chasm of wealth and privilege thatdivided them. This was not a man who put his trousers on the same way as everyone else each morning—he had hired help to assist him.
“I suggest that before we compile a list of suspects, you tell me everything you know about the late Mr Hardwick,” the earl continued, his commanding tone making redundant his use of the word suggest.
“I’m afraid that’s not much,” Sarah murmured, as she racked her brain to recall the tidbits of gossip she had heard about Silas since his arrival to Plumpton.
As they began to walk parallel to the slow moving Churn, Sarah shared all that she knew about the now deceased Mr Hardwick.
“He inherited his farm from old Mr Gardiner just a few months ago,” Sarah began. “After a long search it appeared that Mr Hardwick was the only relative who could be found. He’s said to have lived in Essex before moving here but I have not heard mention of any other family, nor have any visited.”
