Page 9 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
“Er, yes. Quite.”
The duke gave a laugh that could only be described as nervous, then gestured to an empty snug toward the back of the pub. Once both men were seated, they each took a large sip of their pints.
Lucian waited a beat, before he wryly observed; “I believe Angus served us the muckwater.”
“It tastes better the more you drink,” Northcott informed him, with the confidence of a man who had experience battering his taste-buds into submission with the stuff.
Indeed, the second pint went down much easier than the first, and by the time both men were enjoying their third pint, they were joined by Northcott’s brother-in-law, Lord Crabb.
“Jane allowed me shore-leave,” the viscount said, as he took a seat.
The viscount had—Lucian knew—amassed a fortune sailing the high-seas, before unexpectedly inheriting a local title and setting up home with the second eldest daughter of the Mifford clan.
“One has to escape from behind their wife’s skirts every now and then,” Northcott chortled. The duke’s eyes then strayed to the clock on the wall to make certain he was within his allotted curfew, somewhat nullifying his masculine bravado.
“Permission to attend was granted on the condition that I keep an ear out for any dark mutterings about Mr Hardwick’s plans,” Crabb cast a suspicious eye at the patrons of the tavern.
“Do you expect trouble?” Lucian asked, with some surprise. “Plumpton does not strike me as the sort of village in which violence might erupt.”
Northcott and Crabb exchanged a wry glance, which let Lucian know his belief in the peace of Plumpton was somewhatmisplaced. Over another two pints, the viscount and the duke outlined several murders that had occurred in the village over recent years, many of which had been solved by one or other of the Mifford sisters, and their respective husbands.
“Thegrandes damesof Almack’s will have a bloodbath on their hands, if word gets out that solving a murder is a surefire way to find a husband,” Lucian commented, as the pair finished the tale of the most recent case.
“I would have married Mary murder or no,” Northcott—who was now quite tipsy—said, a dream-like smile on his face. “Cupid’s arrow struck me the moment I saw her. Granted, so did a rock. But still; true love.”
Lucian was tempted to question the duke further but the door to the tavern swung open and the whole room fell quiet as two men entered. Given the ominous silence, Lucian was tempted to guess that one of the men was the infamous Silas Hardwick.
“Two pints please, Angus,” one of the fellows called.
He was a tall chap, with a shock of blonde hair that was so tousled it looked as though he had just walked through a gale. His expression was affable and congenial, thought from the air of entitlement that he exuded, Lucian guessed he was neither.
“This pub don’t serve thieves,” a gentleman at the bar called snidely.
“I serve Mr Marrowbone nightly and he’s been stealing a living for years,” Angus retorted, opting for humour to diffuse the taut atmosphere.
A few patrons gave appreciative guffaws while Mr Marrowbone protested his innocence, then a hum of chatter started up again. Lucian watched, from the corner of his eye, as Angus quickly pulled two pints for the gentlemen, who then retired to a seat near the fire.
“That’s the famous Mr Hardwick?” Lucian clarified in a whisper.
Northcott and Crabb nodded glumly.
“He of the diverted stream?” Lucian continued, then his mind slipped to his conversation with Mrs Mifford, “And philandering?”
“Allegedly he’s bedded half the village,” Lord Crabb said wryly. “I suppose we’ll have to wait until after Twelfth Night to see if Plumpton is overrun with titan-haired babes to confirm the rumours.”
“He doesn’t strike me as a the sort of man women would choose to philander with,” Lucian observed. To his eye, Mr Hardwick looked a little unkempt; his coat was made of rumpled satin, its obscene colour of coquelicotred only highlighting its need for a good flat-iron. His shirt protruded through a gap in his waistcoat—which was already strained around the middle—while the cravat at his throat was askew. And that was just his top-half.
“Apparently some women are drawn to him,” Lord Crabb gave a shrug. “I don’t like to dissect the why of it too deeply. If I was to hazard a guess, I would say he’s charming as well as wealthy.”
“Women do love to be charmed,” Northcott agreed before turning his gaze to Lucian. “Speaking of which, I noted that Miss Hughes appears quite charmed by you.”
As Miss Hughes had not shown any inkling of finding Lucian charming and because his friend was notthatobservant, Lucian deduced that Northcott had been urged to investigate by his wife.
“Your mother-in-law thinks we would make a fine match,” was all Lucian cared to share in reply. His pride still rankled a little from Miss Hughes’ non-reaction to his plan. Most single ladies might simper and preen to learn that they’d be drawninto subterfuge with an earl, but not Miss Hughes. She appeared completely unimpressed by both him and his title.
As a consummate host, Northcott grimaced when he heard that his mother-in-law was once again interfering in his guest’s affairs. Lucian hid a smile and was saved from elaborating any further by the arrival of another group of men to the pub.
“Here comes trouble,” Lord Crabb whistled.
