Page 20 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
“Very good.”
The colonel had the good grace to laugh as though he hadn’t heard that quip a hundred times before. He waved for Lucian to follow him into his library—all muted tones and leather—where he poured him a generous measure of brandy.
“Chin, chin,” he toasted, as he handed Lucian his glass.
As the two men sipped their drinks, they discussed politics, the French, and matters economic. The colonel, Lucian learned, was soon due to retire and had an interest in purchasing a seat from one of the rotten boroughs.
“Parliament could use a few more men with work ethic,” Colonel Fawkes groused, his moustache quivering with passion. “Men who have had to work to earn their seat, rather than have it handed to them by a quirk of birth. No offence meant, my lord.”
“None taken,” Lucian shrugged his shoulders. From his own experience in The House of Lords, he knew a good chunk of the aristocracy only attended parliamentary sessions for the drinks in White’s afterward.
“So, you’ve an interest in gardening?” the colonel stood abruptly and wandered over to a set of French doors.
Assuming that he had decided their allotted time for chit-chat had now ended, Lucian stood to follow him.
“I enjoy collecting rare species and studying up on the subject of botany,” he answered, in an attempt to make his hobby sound more masculine. The colonel’s barrel chest, tree-trunk arms, and air of impatience reminded Lucian a little of his long dead grandfather, and he felt a strange need to impress him. What was it about the inhabitants of Plumpton that made him feel less of an earl?
“It’s an expensive hobby,” the colonel commented, as he opened the doors out to the gardens. “If the rate at which Arabella is burning through money is anything to go by. Though she will argue that she needs something to keep her entertained while I’m away.”
Lucian tried to decipher whether there was bitterness—or any kind of awareness—to the colonel’s tone, but his ears could detect none.
“She’s done a fine job,” Fawkes continued, as he paused to survey the sunken garden before them. “Hardwick sent over some men to level the lawn and build walls, then Mr Leek stuffed it full of flowers.”
“That was kind of Mr Hardwick,” Lucian commented, hoping that the colonel was able to read the subtext to his words. That not many people had a kind word to say about the dead man.
“He didn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart,” the colonel guffawed. “He billed an extortionate amount for the labour. I’d love to find out what he paid the men who did the actual work.”
Lucian tried not to wince; Hardwick had truly been the devil, if he’d both cuckolded and overcharged Colonel Fawkes. Though, perhaps, he thought with a thrill, that meant the colonel had twice the motive they’d first guessed.
“Awful business, still, the murder,” Lucian said, keeping his tone offhand. “I wonder if there’s anyone else around who might have felt cheated by the man?”
The Colonel turned to look Lucian dead in the eye. His blue gaze was so unnervingly assessing, that Lucian felt a momentary stab of pity for whatever Frenchmen had met him on the battle field. He was quite certain none had lived to tell the tale.
“Oh, ho, I know what you’re about,” Fawkes muttered, his moustache twitching.
Dash it. Lucian cursed inwardly—so much for subtlety.
“Mrs Mifford did hint at it,” the colonel added, further confusing him.
As Mrs Mifford was capable of anything—even telling a man he was under suspicion for murder—Lucian waited for the colonel to continue.
“She’s a bonny girl, of course,” Fawkes pressed on.
“Mrs Mifford?” Lucian raised a brow, now utterly perplexed.
“Miss Hughes,” the colonel chortled. “Mrs Mifford hinted that you had formed a tendre for the lass. A lovely girl; gently born, if not the gentry. Not a bad choice for a second wife, from a tactical point of view. Apart, of course, from the business with her father. But that will blow over or be forgotten about. No need for you to take on the yoke of the investigation yourself, my lord.”
“I should like to clear his name,” Lucian replied, his voice firm. He had the sense the colonel appreciated directness.
“I don’t doubt you would,” Fawkes shrugged, “But if you want my opinion, you’d be best to leave matters alone. I’ve no doubt that Mr Hughes killed Mr Hardwick—the time-line of events is clear. People forget these things after a time. Which is all the more reason not to go stirring the pot.”
For the life of him, Lucian could not decipher if the colonel was delivering a veiled threat or was genuinely worried for Mr Hughes. He supposed a man did not rise to a great rank in the armed forces by being easily read. Ambiguity, after all, was a tactical advantage.
“I’ll take your advice into consideration, Colonel,” he replied evenly, attempting for a little ambiguity of his own.
“Good, good,” Fawkes smiled, “And you can cross me off your list if I’m on it. I was visiting with Sir Charles until past midnight.”
“Oh, I didn’t,” Lucian began to protest, but Fawkes cut him off with a wave of his hand.
