Page 36 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
She turned on her heel and set off for home at a brisk pace. As she walked, she pondered how she might get word to Lord Deverell—for she knew, if anyone could help Mrs Bridges, it was he. She had just decided to call to Northcott Manor and seek an audience with him—gossip be damned—when she spotted him riding toward her through the village, as though summoned by fate.
Even in her worry for Mrs Bridges, Sarah could appreciate what a handsome figure he cut, seated on a dark bay, his coat billowing behind him.
“Miss Hughes,” the earl called, as she waved him down.
He brought his steed to a halt, dismounted, and offered her a short bow.
“Oh, thank goodness it’s you,” Sarah blurted, then hastily informed him of the altercation she had overheard.
“I’m afraid Mr Treswell is going to try his best to have Mrs Bridges arrested,” she finished glumly.
“Not on my watch, he won’t,” Lord Deverell replied, jaw set.
He looked so terribly aristocratic and faintly dangerous in that moment, that Sarah’s heart skipped a beat. Subconsciously, she lifted her hand to her mouth, as she recalled their brief moment of passion.
“Miss Hughes,” Lord Deverell said softly his eyes on her lips. “If you don’t drop your hand from your lips at once, I’m afraid I’m going to cause something of a scandal and kiss you.”
Sarah blushed and cast a glance over her shoulder, where she sighted Mrs Canards and Mrs Wickling lingering by the village green, openly staring. She reluctantly dropped her hand, earning herself a rueful grin from Lord Deverell.
“A shame,” he said longingly, “I shall have to settle for the promise of your first dance at the assembly instead.”
Her ability to form words fled as her cheeks flushed pink. Luckily, Lord Deverell turned to remount his horse, negating her need to answer.
“I want the last dance too, Miss Hughes,” he called, before taking off at a gallop up the village.
Only once he’d vanished from sight—and her heartbeat had returned to its usual meter—did Sarah realise: she had entirely forgotten to tell him what Mr Henderson had said about Mr Leek.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LUCIAN DID NOToften peacock but while assuring Miss Hughes that he would handle Mr Treswell, he might have puffed out his chest a bit. And insinuated that he would use the brute force of his muscles to bring the solicitor to heel.
While Lucian did possess muscles beneath the merino wool of his coat, he also had a brain beneath his beaver hat. A man like Mr Treswell would not respond to threats of violence. Lucian would have to draw on his reserves of charm, which—if the indifference of the inhabitants of Plumpton were anything to go by—were running low.
He caught up with Mr Treswell a fair bit along the Bath Road, quite near the gates to Crabb Hall. The solicitor had made great pace thanks to a furious stride and a burning sense of injustice—which showed itself as two red spots upon his cheeks.
“Mr Treswell,” Lucian hailed him cheerfully as he dismounted to walk beside him. “Are you calling into Lord Crabb? What a coincidence, I was just dropping in to discuss the murder investigation with him.”
“Investigation?” Treswell snorted, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “There’s no need for an investigation. It’s quite clear who killed Mr Hardwick—Mrs Bridges!”
“There are several other people with the motive—and means—to have murdered Hardwick,” Lucian informed him, with a murmur of confidential authority.
“Several other people did not chase me with a shotgun,” the solicitor deadpanned.
Lucian bit back a sigh; his charm had failed him yet again, it was time to pull a trick from up his sleeve.
“But where’s the fun in the most obvious suspect?” Lucian questioned, slapping the man so heartily on the shoulder that he stumbled a little. “When we can discuss other, less conspicuous suspects over a good bottle of brandy. Crabb’s cellar rivals that of White’s.”
Like most men, Treswell could be softened by alcohol and aspiration. He might never be invited to White’s, but he clearly liked the sound of being spoken to as if he belonged, for he quickly agreed to the plan.
If Lord Crabb was surprise to find Lucian and the solicitor at the threshold of his library, he hid it well. He instructed the butler who had ushered them inside to fetch fresh glasses and—much to Lucian’s relief—made a great show of selecting the finest bottle from the shelf for his guests.
“It always seems a shame to open a bottle alone,” Crabb said, as he finally settled on a bottle of Armagnac, allegedly smuggled in from Elba. He poured them each a generous measure, then sat down and smiled at them expectantly.
“I bumped into Mr Treswell on the ride here,” Lucian quickly explained, “I was hoping to catch a moment with you to discuss the investigation. I invited old Tressy here to join us, though I do hope I’m not distracting from the purpose of your own visit?”
Lucian turned to the solicitor, who looked a little startled to find that an earl had already bequeathed him an intimate moniker. He grinned a little stupidly, before clearing his throat.
“I had called to discuss the issue of Mrs Bridges, my lord,” Treswell ventured, nervously. “It’s quite clear that she is suffering from some sort of violent episode, brought on by the loss of her faculties. I am afraid that it was most likely she who killed Mr Hardwick and was going to suggest you, eh, have her arrested.”
