Page 21 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
“I’ve the best aim in the village,” the colonel said proudly. “I’d think less of you if you didn’t suspect me. Though I’d no quarrel with Hardwick, excepting a few overpriced walls—but what cost a dear wife’s happiness, eh?”
Awkwardness descended upon Lucian, as he realised that Colonel Fawkes—for all his admirable strengths—had a decided weak-spot.
“Is Mrs Fawkes at home?” Lucian ventured, for want of anything else to say.
“She is abed, my lord,” the colonel sighed. “She’s had an earache these past few days. She could not make it to Sir Charles’ gathering but felt well enough to visit Crabb Hall last night. Alas, it seems to have set her recovery back a day.”
“A pity,” Lucian condoled. “I find an onion poultice usually works.”
“I’m partial to a spiritual cure myself but that’s the army—there’s no ailment that a good dram of whiskey can’t fix.”
Unable to argue with that logic, Lucian followed the colonel through the sunken garden on what was now—they both knew—a cursory tour. The sunken garden was neat and symmetrical, its beds bordered with brick and planted in tidy rows. Amid the usual roses and lavender, Lucian noted a few rarer specimens—blue monkshood, a Japanese anemone—that bore the unmistakable stamp of Mr Leek’s influence.
“It would hold its own against those in the Royal Pavilion,” Lucian commented, as the tour reached its end.
“I’d say it cost just as much,” the colonel grumbled.
He led Lucian back through the French doors and through the library to the entrance hall. There, he ordered the footman—again, standing to attention as though expecting the French to arrive at any minute—to fetch Lucian’s steed.
“If I didn’t have to return to Bristol, I’d try wangle an invite to go shooting on the Northcott estate,” Fawkes said without a hint of guile.
“You’re always welcome in Abergavenny,” Lucian offered, surprised to realise he actually meant it.
He felt he could grow fond of the colonel’s directness; it was oddly refreshing.
“Very decent of you; if one can call an invitation to visit Wales decent.”
The colonel gave a guffaw at his own joke, and Lucian tamped down his appreciation of the man’s directness.
“I’ll bring Arabella along,” Fawkes suggested quickly, sensing he had dented Welsh pride. “Between the pair of us there won’t be a sheep left grazing on the Brecon Beacons .”
“Does Mrs Fawkes hunt?” Lucian queried, struggling to keep his expression impassive. Mrs Fawkes had remained at Hill House on the night of the murder—was it possible it was she who had shot Hardwick in a jealous rage and not her beleaguered husband?
“That’s what attracted me to her first,” Fawkes confessed, his eyes wistful. “Nothing more attractive than a woman who knows her way around a rifle, eh Ashford?”
“Indeed,” Lucian agreed, though inwardly he wondered if it was a peculiar enthusiasm found only among men in uniform.
After a few more words of polite chit-chat—but not too many, for the colonel tended toward brevity—Lucian mounted his steed and set off down the long gravel drive. He had much to ponder on his journey back to Northcott Manor, though his mind preferred to mull over Miss Hughes rather than murder suspects.
The feel of her arm nestled against him and the gentle caress of her hand on his forearm negated—somewhat—the lingering pain on hisotherarm, where Mrs Fawkes had left her mark.Even better, the memory of Sarah’s blushes—how they had stained not only her cheeks, but her generousdécolletage—warmed Lucian to his very marrow.
He was falling hard for Miss Hughes and if her reaction to his teasing and flirtation was anything to go by, she did not overly object to the idea of him. Lucian was certain that with a bit more persistence—and perhaps some help from Mrs Mifford—he’d soon know for sure if Miss Hughes might consent to his advances.
As he navigated the winding road that led back to Northcott Manor, a canopy of leaves overhead, Lucian smiled to himself. How ironic that the woman who had sent him jumping into a hedgerow in terror was now his ally in his campaign to woo Miss Hughes.
Sarah, Lucian corrected himself. And then smiled again.
As he rounded the next curve in the road, he realised he was close to Long Acres. His eyes were naturally drawn to the hedge—thick, tall, and as officiously neat as the man who owned the land behind it.
He slowed Brambles to a canter to inspect the fine trimming. Just because Mr Leek was on the suspect list didn’t mean Lucian couldn’t appreciate a bit of superior topiary work. The lines were crisp, the shaping precise. Murder aside, the man was an artist with shears.
From beyond the hedge, a loud shout went up, startling Lucian.
“Mr Leek, the crows are back!”
The voice belonged to Mrs Vickery and from her tone, Lucian guessed that a corvid was about to meet its bloody end.
“Fetch the gun.”
