Page 42 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
Well, perhaps the memory of Mr Marrowbone launching into “Rule Britannia” while they wereotherwise engagedwas mildly scarring, but Lucian quickly purged it from his mind.
He whistled a cheerful tune as his valet assisted him with his morning toilette. Hummed under his breath as he skipped down the stairs to the dining room. He almost pirouetted through the door to breakfast but a sense of decorum—and one of his knees—held him back.
“Lord Deverell you look far too well for a man who was dancing past midnight,” the Duchess of Northcott commented as he entered the room.
She, Lucian noted, looked rather fragile.
“Ashford did not indulge in the punch, dear,” Northcott commented, from behind his newspaper.
“Nor did I,” the duchess argued, though as she finished speaking she clasped a hand over her mouth, as though worried she might cast up her accounts.
“Excuse me, please,” she said after a pause, then pushed back her chair and fled the room.
“She hasn’t been able to take a sip of wine without suffering violently the next morning since she had George,” Northcott said fondly.
“There’s a reason why God left the responsibility of creation to women,” Lucian chortled, as he took a seat. “If the rumour got around that a man couldn’t drink after, we’d have died out as a species long ago.”
“True,” the duke agreed, before returning his attention to his paper.
A footman arrived with a plate of sausages and eggs, which Lucian tucked into with gusto. He was ravenous, a fact he put down to the numerous dances and unsated desire of the night before.
He had just speared his final sausage when, from outside the tall window, there came the sound of furious hooves on the gravel outside.
“Must be Mrs Mifford arriving for her morning gossip,” Northcott said mildly, as he glanced out the window.
Whatever he saw caused him to frown and fold his paper.
“It’s Lord Crabb,” he explained to Lucian’s questioning glance.
Northcott stood from the table to go meet his brother-in-law but by the time he reached the door, it was already being opening by an out-of-breath butler.
“Lord Crabb, your Grace,” the butler intoned, as the viscount strode in behind him.
“Mr Leek is dead,” Crabb said, his gaze turning to Lucian. “He was found on the London Road with two bullets through his chest.”
Lucian blinked, the enormity of his words not quite sinking in. Mr Leek, dead? How could the man have been murdered, when he was a suspected murderer himself?
At Northcott’s urging, Lord Crabb took a seat at the table and recounted the tale of what had happened to the two men, over steaming cups of coffee.
“Mr Marrowbone came to fetch me first thing this morning,” Lord Crabb said. “Mr Leek was discovered at day-break, by a farmer on his way to the market at Stroud.”
“Were there any signs of a struggle?” Lucian questioned quickly.
“None,” the viscount shook his head. “According to Dr Bates, the bullet wounds resemble those found on Mr Hardwick. Small and neat, with no powder burns or stippling to be found.”
Two men, shot at long distance. The sign of a good marksman, or a woman who dared not risk getting too close to her target, in case she was physically overpowered?
“Miss Hughes overheard Mr Leek arguing with Mrs Fawkes last night,” Lucian blurted, “She said she wanted to shoot him dead.”
“She’s certain?” Lord Crabb pressed.
“Well, she did not see who was arguing but she was certain she recognised the voices,” Lucian confirmed, then added loyally, “And if she is certain, then so am I.”
“I will call on Hill House later,” Lord Crabb decided, “And have another word with that footman of hers.”
“We could go now?” Lucian suggested, eager to do something.
“I wish to speak with Mrs Vickery first,” the viscount gave a slight grimace. “To see if there’s any light she can shed on the matter.”
