Page 38 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
“Perhaps he returned on the night he was killed to threaten Mrs Bridges again?” Lucian hazarded a guess, then frowned. “Though that would imply that he thinks this mysterious heiress is nearer than we think.”
“She may be,” Lord Crabb suggested, “Though you’ll have to forgive me Ashford, my head is quite fuzzy after all that brandy. I don’t think I’ll be any help solving the murder this afternoon.”
“I’m as far off an epiphany as you,” Lucian agreed, standing up to stretch his limbs. “My thanks for the hospitality.”
“I shall see you tomorrow evening at the assembly,” Crabb called after him, as he strode from the room.
The mention of the assembly brought Miss Hughes back to the forefront of Lucian’s mind. He let his horse set the paceas he rode back toward the village, his thoughts occupied with memories of the kiss he had shared with her.
His worry that she might be indifferent to him had now vanished; she had responded to his kiss eagerly, if shyly. He sighed, adjusting his reins, as he thought longingly of holding her in his arms the next night for the two dances she had promised him.
The sudden idea that someone else might try claim another dance from her was so abhorrent, that Lucian decided he would fill her dance-card with only his name. It would cause a scandal, no doubt, but then so would an earl engaging in fisticuffs with any other would-be-suitors.
He passed through the village, keeping an eye out for Miss Hughes, though he reached the London Road without sighting her. He guided his steed over the bridge that led to the road to Northcott Manor and his mind naturally drifted toward Mrs Bridges.
It seemed, if she had any motive to murder Hardwick, it was likely self-defence. Lucian could well imagine the dissolute man terrorising an old-woman he viewed as a threat. It was not a happy end to the search for the murderer but at least her neck would be safe from the hangman’s noose.
If only their other suspects had proved more suspect, Lucian thought mournfully, as he neared Long Acres.
The wind shifted and he slowed his horses’ pace, to appreciate the scent of lavender and woodsmoke as he passed. A lone crow circled above, bravely scanning Mr Leek’s property for an afternoon snack.
“There’s tastier treats elsewhere, my friend,” Lucian murmured to himself.
He nearly jumped from his saddle as a shot went off behind the hedges just as he finished speaking. He shielded his eyeswith his hand and watched with disquiet, as the crow fell from the sky in a slow, spiraling descent.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SARAH HAD PROBABLYattended hundreds of Plumpton’s assemblies—and even, once, one in the Upper Assembly Rooms at Bath. Yet for all her experience of dancing, she had never felt quite so breathless with anticipation as she did that evening.
She had dressed with what could only be described as excessive care in the new gown sent over by Jane. The dress, a creation of rose-pink silk, boasted gauze sleeves and a ribbon sash the exact shade of the satin one she’d impulsively bought at the market. Though most likely a coincidence, Sarah took it as a very good omen as she tied her hair with the ribbon.
Anne—playing lady’s maid for the evening—gave an admiring whistle as Sarah twirled so she could inspect her.
“The earl will drop dead when he sees you,” the maid assured Sarah.
“I rather hope he doesn’t, Anne,” Sarah laughed; she wanted at least one dance from him first.
Anne’s praise only added to her excitement and Sarah near-skipped down the staircase runner to the hall, where her father was waiting.
“You’ll be the most beautiful girl at the ball,” he said gruffly, as he opened the front door.
“I don’t think spinsters can be referred to as girls, Papa,” Sarah teased, though his words meant more than she let on.
As they drove to Plumpton, Sarah’s excitement met with nerves. What if Lord Deverell cried off on the assembly and she was left wandering the periphery of the dance-floor alone?Her worries eased considerably as they drew up in front of The Ring’o’Bells and she sighted Northcott’s carriage parked alongside the other vehicles.
Plumpton’s assemblies were not a grand affair by anyone’s standards. They were held in a large room above The Ring which, on quieter nights, hosted the whist club—or Mr Marrowbone, when he’d had too much to walk home.
Sarah and her father joined the queue and waited restlessly with everyone else for Mrs Canards to hurry along. As usual, Mrs Canards was inspecting every voucher as though it might be a forgery, especially those belonging to those she deemed unworthy of entry.
“Look at that ink, Mrs Wickling,” she called to her companion, as she held Mr Henderson’s voucher up to the light. “It’s all smudged—I suspect it’s a fake.”
“It’s not my fault The Ladies’ Society print their vouchers on the cheap,” Mr Henderson retorted, snatching his voucher back from her.
“And it’s not my eyes’ fault your breeches are so tight, Mr Henderson,” Mrs Canards retorted, without missing a beat. “I should bar you from entry on grounds of indecency alone.”
“I wasn’t aware the dress code included a breeches inspection,” the young lad answered, turning to the waiting queue to make certain they could hear him. “Shall I turn and give you the full view, madam?”
Loud laughter erupted and Mrs Canards turned a violent shade of red. Sarah fretted that she might do an injury to Mr Henderson, until Mr Mifford appeared from upstairs.
