Contents
Title Page
Copyright
About the Author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Other Works
A Death, A Duke, and Miss Mifford
Regency Murder and Marriage
Book One
Claudia Stone
Copyright © 2020 Claudia Stone
All rights reserved.
www.claudiastone.com
Copy Editing: E. Hamilton
Cover Design: Ava @ http://avdaldesigns.com/
About the Author
Claudia Stone was born in South Africa but moved to Plymouth as a young girl. Having trained as an actress at RADA, she moved to New York to pursue her dream of acting on Broadway in 1988. She never did see her name in lights, but she did meet a wonderful Irishman called Conal who whisked her away to the wilds of Kerry, where she has lived ever since.
Claudia and Conal have three children, a dairy farm and a rescue lab called Buddy. When she has any time left over, Claudia enjoys reading Regency as well as writing it.
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Chapter One
Miss Mary Mifford held her head high as she made her way through the village of Plumpton. As she walked, she tried not to imagine people whispering about her behind the leaded windows of the houses which lined the main street, but it was somewhat difficult.
Plumpton, a small village nestled in the Cotswold Hills, was a place where everyone knew everyone else's business—and gossiped about it incessantly.
Having herself given many afternoons over to dissecting the goings-on of the villagers, Mary was depressingly aware that her return from the London Season—without a ring—would be the cause of much chin-wagging. She now rued her own indulgence in idle chatter, for despite being the current victim of the town tabbies, she was not so innocent a victim that she could feign moral outrage.
Think of it as a lesson, Mary told herself, as she crossed the footbridge over the slow-moving stream, which divided Upper Plumpton from Lower Plumpton. There was not much discernible difference between the two sides of the village, both being abundant in picturesque thatched-roof cottages built from Cotswolds' stone. The lands which surrounded the upper end of Plumpton, however, belonged to the aptly named Lord Crabb, while at the lower end, the village gave way to the fields of the Duke of Northcott's estate.
One of his many estates, Mary corrected herself; for the duke owned half of England, and some of Scotland too, and was rarely in residence, despite Northcott being his ducal seat.
Mary continued onward, willing herself to think on the absent duke rather than her disastrous season which, when coupled with her twenty-second birthday, had surely marked her as the town spinster.
As the eldest of the four Mifford sisters, Mary's only duty had been to ensure that she made a good match and married quickly so that her younger siblings might then be set loose upon the bachelors of the Cotswolds. At first, it had seemed that Mary would succeed, as for two years she was courted by William Buck, a barrister from nearby Evesham. Mary had been greatly disappointed, however, when after many promises of marriage, young William had returned from a sojourn to Bath with a new wife who was not Mary.
Heartbroken, Mary had allowed her mama to convince her to attempt a season in town. Mrs Mifford's three sisters had all married well, and were suitably placed to ensure that Mary would be seen by only the most eligible men in London. Indeed, the most eligible men in London had seen her, but none had taken an interest, given her age and lack of endowments. Once the season had ended, Mary had returned to Plumpton, her confidence dented, only to then find that her mama had told anyone who would listen—and even those who would rather have not—that Mary was sure to return home with a ring on her finger.
It was, Mary reflected ruefully, a definite case of insult to injury.
Still, she was a practical girl, and if she was doomed to be cast into the role of the village spinster, then she would do her utmost to play the part to perfection.
Spinsters were, Mary knew from all the books she had read, pernickety, fussy souls, who believed themselves to be the bastion of all that was good, charitable, and rule-abiding. They abhorred gaiety, vanity, and—most of all—men. While following the first two rules sounded rather dull, after her experience with William, Mary was very much enthused about the latter.
Her determination to be the most accomplished spinster Plumpton had ever seen was the reason why Mary was presently traipsing through Lower Plumpton, under a hot summer sun.
Mrs Canards, a devoted member of Plumpton Parish Ladies' Society, had come down with an earache and had cried off attending that afternoon's meeting. Under usual circumstances, Mary would have rejoiced alongside her sisters at the gossiping-dragon's absence from their gathering, but the new Mary had instead taken on a facade of concern for Mrs Canards.
"The poor dear," she had said, as she finished reading the missive Mrs Canards had sent, "I shall take it upon myself to brew her a nostrum and drop it down to her before lunch."
"And why on earth would you do that?" Mr Mifford had asked, drawing his bushy brows together in bewilderment.
"Because it is the charitable thing to do, Papa," Mary had retorted, with a pointed glare to her father, who, as vicar of Plumpton Parish, really ought to have known better.
"I wouldn't waste charity on Mrs Canards," Mr Mifford had replied mildly, "Nor would I attempt to remedy a punishment quite obviously divinely sent; the good Lord gifted Mrs Canards with an earache so that she might understand how the rest of us suffer when she speaks with her malicious tongue."
Really! Mary had been in half a mind to upbraid her father for his blasphemous chatter, but his remark had caused her three sisters to descend into gales of laughter, and Mary was quite sure that if she opened her mouth, she too would be overtaken by mirth.
So instead, she had taken herself—with a pointed sniff—to the kitchen, where she had loudly begun to prepare her nostrum. Once the concoction of dried herbs and flowers had simmered sufficiently, Mary had allowed it to cool, before draining the liquid into a jar, using a muslin square as a sieve. She had then added a rather large drop of brandy for good measure; her mama's secret ingredient.
Once she had affixed a beeswax lid to the jar, Mary had set forth, though not before loudly shouting that she was leaving so that the whole house would know she was following through on her good intentions. What good was piety, she reasoned, if there was no one to appreciate it?
Mrs Canards lived just outside of Lower Plumpton, in a little cottage which lay about half-a-mile along the road to Bath. Mary hummed to herself as she left the village, much preferring to walk along a road lined with hedgerows rather than houses.
Birds chattered to each other from the trees, while slow, lazy bumble-bees haphazardly made their way from one wildflower to the next, drunk on nectar.
Country living was far preferable to town, Mary decided, as a donkey poked its head out over the bushes to say hello. London had, at first, seemed terribly exciting, but as the weeks had worn on, she had found that despite the hustle and bustle of people, she had never been more lonely in all her life. Plumpton was where she belonged, and it was where she would stay until the day that she died. Perhaps, if she put enough effort into being the best spinster possible, they might erect a statue to her in the village square, which might act as a point of solace to other young, unmarried ladies, showing them that the affliction of spinsterhood was not so bad.
The road before Mary curved sharply and her thoughts travelled from her distant death and canonisation to more imminent matters. To reach Mrs Canards' house, Mary would have to pass by Lower Plumpton's church—built in the thirteenth century and dedicated to St Mary the Virgin—as well as the rectory which abutted it—built in the seventeenth century and currently dedicated to its rector, the un-saintly Mr Parsims.
Mr Parsims had held the living in Lower Plumpton for some three years, but even time could not make his flock warm to him. A small man, with watery eyes and pale hair—which one could not quite bring themselves to describe as blonde, for it would do blondes the world over a disservice—Mr Parsims had the look of a distinctly unlikeable man, and the personality to match. Though the living in Lower Plumpton was said to be generous, and though Mr Parsims had no family to support, the rector was quick to demand that his congregation paid their tithes in full.
Sarah Hughes, Mary's particular friend, was convinced that Mr Parsims spent his nights creeping through the farms of the parish, counting the eggs in the hen houses and feeling the weight of the cows' udders, such was the accuracy of his demands.
As well as greed, Mr Parsims' other great sin was wrath; he enjoyed—especially publicly—dishing out insults to anyone who dared cross his path. His numerous barbs were delivered slyly as though in jest, leaving his victim confused and off-step. Plumpton was not a very sophisticated place and the villagers—especially the men—preferred an insult to be delivered straight, so as to be given a chance for a similarly straight rebuttal. A swift box, from man to man, was considered a perfectly acceptable retort amongst the less educated inhabitants of Plumpton.
No, Mr Parsims was not liked at all, and Mary quickened her step, hoping to whizz past without being sighted. However, as she was racing by, she saw a darkly clad man peering in through a window of the rectory and acting most suspiciously, and Mary decided that her need to avoid Mr Parsims was now outweighed by her need to be an upstanding citizen.
The scurrilous man had evidently not spotted Mary, for he began to try to open the window from the outside, rattling it on its hinges.
A thief! In Lower Plumpton! Outrageous!
Mary deposited the jar of nostrum into a nearby bush and reached down to the ground to scoop up a stone. Though she did not like Mr Parsims, she was not about to stand by and watch a thief intrude on his home. With very little thought to her own personal safety--in fact, with no thought or reasoning at all--Mary flung the stone across the garden at the would-be-intruder.
An onlooker might wonder how a young woman who had grown up in a house filled with females might have such a true aim, but having three sisters--stocking pilfering ones at that--had proved itself to be a greater target practice than even archery might manage. Mary's stone hit the intruder smack-bang on the back of his head, causing him to emit a curse most unsuitable for female ears.
A blasphemer as well as a thief, Mary thought with a sniff.
"Stop right there," she called, grabbing his attention, "If you continue your attempt at robbing Mr Parsims, I can assure you that another, larger stone is headed your way."
The thief--still rubbing the back of his head--turned to face Mary, and her triumphant heart seemed to stop dead within her chest.
The thief was very handsome.
He was also very tall.
His coat, if Mary was not mistaken, was Weston.
His looks, coupled with his fine attire, were embellished even further by his expression; haughty, outraged, and decidedly aristocratic.
Mary began to wonder if she might have, perhaps, made a mistake.
"I shall not stand idly by and watch you rob poor Mr Parsims," Mary continued, though her voice wavered as a pair of amused blue eyes watched her.
"I can assure you that I have no need to rob Mr Parsims," the man replied, in a smooth voice which was most certainly Etonian in its origin; "I am Northcott."
The duke!
Mary felt all the blood in her body rush to her face; if there was one man in all of England who did not need to resort to stealing to earn his keep, it was Northcott.
"Your Grace," Mary stammered, rushing through the garden-gate toward him, "I did not know it was you."
"I had gathered," Northcott raised his hand to once again rub the back of his head, "Though I must commend you on your aim."
This rubbing of his head ruffled his dark locks so that they were even more rakishly dishevelled than before. Something in the pit of Mary's stomach twinged with longing, and she realised that she was on the verge of descending into giddy hysterics at His Grace's devilishly handsome good looks.
You are a spinster, Mary reminded herself sternly, you abhor men--especially the good-looking ones. Pull yourself together, woman.
And so, Mary did.
She took a deep breath, before adopting her most pious tone; "Well, you cannot blame me for defending Mr Parsims' property, Your Grace, when it looked as though you were going to break-in through the window. Whatever were you about? Surely if Mr Parsims was out, you might have called back later?"
Northcott frowned; he was not, Mary guessed, a man who often had his motives questioned. Nor, judging by the twitch of his mouth, was he a man who enjoyed it.
"I thought I heard shouting from inside," Northcott answered stiffly, "It sounded like an argument."
"Whoever would Mr Northcott be arguing with?" Mary questioned, more to herself than the duke, "He lives alone."
"I am aware of that," Northcott answered dryly, "Which is why I wished to investigate."
"Very good," Mary replied, for he appeared to be awaiting a response, "Carry on."
Two dark eyebrows were drawn together incredulously; one did not usually grant a duke permission to do anything unless one was a king.
"You are most gracious," Northcott drawled, turning his back on Mary to rap once more on the window.
It was a dismissal, Mary knew, but still, she lingered, curious about both the duke and the argument he had heard within.
After a few seconds, Northcott's knock was answered, though not at the window. Mr Parsims, dressed in his customary dark attire, opened the front door of the rectory and peered outside.
"Your Grace, what a surprise," he called, in a voice which sounded to Mary's ears anything but surprised, "To what do I owe this great honour?"
Though Mr Parsims' tone sounded forced, his words were exactly the sort one ought to use around a duke. Saying Northcott's presence was a "great honour" was a far more fitting greeting than lobbing a stone at the back of his head, Mary thought ruefully.
"I have taken up residence at the manor," Northcott replied, referring to Northcott Manor, his nearby manor house, "I wished to let you know of my arrival. I knocked, but there was no answer, and I thought I heard voices arguing inside."
"Oh, no," Mr Parsims shook his head and held a pudgy hand up to his equally pudgy cheek as though embarrassed, "I was simply reciting some Shakespeare; I was quite the thespian in my Oxford days."
"One of the voices sounded female," Northcott frowned.
"As I said," Mr Parsims said firmly, "I was quite the thespian; the Oxford Times called my falsetto indistinguishable from that of a woman's." Mr Parsims smiled pro
udly, though his eyes narrowed as he spotted Mary, who stood a little behind the duke.
"Miss Mifford, what are you doing here?"
Parsims' greeting was far less enthusiastic than the one he had bestowed upon the duke. He frowned in her direction, and Mary felt herself flush once more as Northcott also turned his surprised gaze upon her. The duke, having earlier dismissed her, had obviously thought she would have had the good sense to leave.
"I was just passing by, on my way to visit Mrs Canards," Mary replied, flustered, "When I saw His Grace attempting to gain entry to the rectory. As he was a stranger and behaving so suspiciously, I took it upon myself to investigate and ensure that he was not attempting to rob you."
Parsims gave a bark of incredulous laughter and cast Mary a pitying gaze.
"I hope you have apologised to His Grace for such a grievous insult," the rector said, though Northcott brushed away his words with a wave of his leather-gloved hand.
"No need," the duke said, "It is commendable of Miss Mifford to have such concern for her neighbours. So unlike London, where a man might steal the eyes from your head if you are not careful."
"Indeed," Parsims was momentarily wrong-footed, though he quickly regained his confidence, "It is not surprising that a young woman who shows such care for others was such a success in London. I heard, Miss Mifford, just how popular you were amongst the ton--the whole town is talking about it, in fact."
Northcott's blue eyes glanced at Mary with interest, but she could not meet his gaze. Anger bubbled in her stomach; she longed to call Parsims out on his underhand insult, but to do so would reveal to the duke just how disastrous her trip to London had been.
"Thank you," Mary replied, managing some degree of dignity, "I must be off; I am dropping a nostrum to Mrs Canards--she has the earache."
Mary bid Mr Parsims and the duke goodbye before she turned on the heel of her walking boot and walked stiffly down the garden path. At the gate, she retrieved the discarded jar of nostrum--which had leaked a little--and offered the duke and the rector a final wave goodbye.
A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford (Regency Murder and Marriage Book 1) Page 1