"I expect that's the late-night hunting parties you throw," Mr Hargreaves said, causing Northcott to frown.
"We have passed by late at night, once or twice, on the way back from Bath or Evesham, and heard shooting in the woods both times," Mr Hargreaves explained, "I thought perhaps you and your guests were indulging in a late-night party, I was most jealous."
"No," Northcott was thoughtful, "It was not anyone in the house, that I know of."
The duke chewed on his lip--much to Mary's shameful delight--before glancing at the clock which stood on the mantelpiece.
"I must be off," he said, rising to a stand, "Thank you again for your time. Mr Mifford, might I have a quick word about the funeral arrangements before I go?"
Northcott and Mr Mifford exited the room, leaving Mary and her mother alone with the Hargreaves.
"More tea?" Mrs Mifford asked politely, though she frowned in annoyance as Mr Hargreaves said yes to her offer. She wanted them gone, Mary knew, so that she might badger her husband to reveal the town's secrets to her.
Mary made polite conversation with the Hargreaves, as they nibbled on rout cake and sipped on tea for another half-hour. As well as hunting, Mr Hargreaves was a keen fisherman, the intricacies of which he explained in great depth to Mary and a very disinterested Mrs Mifford.
"Well," Mr Hargreaves said, once he had finished recounting the story of every fish he had caught in the last decade, "I'm afraid to say we must be on our way."
"Oh, what a pity," Mrs Mifford said, sounding disingenuous to Mary's ear, before bustling the couple out the door so quickly that Mr Hargreaves barely had a chance to don his hat.
"Thank heavens for that," Mrs Mifford sighed, as she banged the door shut behind them, "Now, where's your father?"
Mary longed for a moment to reflect on her afternoon with the duke, as well as on what the Hargreaves had revealed. Solving Mr Parsims' murder did not seem such an insurmountable task now that they knew bribery was a possible motive. But who on the list had a secret so great that they were willing to kill for it?
Mary did not have a chance to ponder this question, or to examine the niggling disappointment she felt at Northcott's abrupt departure, for her father emerged from the library at the sound of his wife's voice.
"My dear," he said straight away, before Mrs Mifford had a chance to speak, "I shall not be revealing anyone's secrets to you, no matter how much you beg and plead."
"Oh, fiddlesticks," Mrs Mifford pouted, "You're no fun, Albert."
"A man with two parishes to manage cannot be expected to have time for fun," Mr Mifford shrugged, allowing a moment for the meaning of his words to sink in.
"Two parishes?" Mrs Mifford clasped a hand over her mouth, "You can't mean?"
"Yes," Mr Mifford gave a sigh that was halfway between annoyance and regret, "Northcott offered me the living at St Mary's; he and Lord Crabb agreed to it earlier. I have told him I will think upon it--"
"What is there to think upon when you have four daughters and not one of them wed?" Mrs Mifford answered hands on hips.
"Not wed, yet," Mr Mifford corrected his wife, and to Mary's surprise, he offered her a wink.
Chapter Eight
The funeral of William Parsims was a short, sombre affair with few mourners in attendance. Mr Mifford, Henry noted with interest, was a fine orator, who somehow managed to compose a touching eulogy about a man that few else would be able to find a kind word for without it sounding false.
It was quite the accomplishment and Henry congratulated himself on having thought of merging the living at St Mary's with that of St Anne's. True, it had taken a slight financial blow to convince Lord Crabb to join in on his plan, but Henry felt the decision was worth the cost. The two parishes were small enough for one man to manage, the tenants were all fond of Mr Mifford already, and--Henry blushed--the act might endear him somewhat to Miss Mifford. Though that, of course, had been only a secondary benefit of the plan, Henry assured himself as the funeral service came to an end.
The mourners gathered in the church dispersed quite quickly, leaving only Henry and Mr Mifford present to bear witness to Mr Parsims' coffin being lowered into the ground.
Once Mr Burke and Mr Hare, the parish gravediggers, had lowered the coffin, Mr Mifford again said a few words--Genesis, if Henry was not mistaken.
"In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken," Mr Mifford rumbled, with appropriate gravitas, "For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return."
"Amen," Henry mumbled, alongside Burke and Hare who, having more experience with matters funereal, took the vicar's words as a sign that the proceedings had ended. They donned the caps which they had removed for the final prayers and set about heaping dark earth into the grave.
"A pity that none of Parsims' family could be here," Mr Mifford said, stepping away from the graveside.
"There were none," Henry replied, "Excepting a cousin in Cirencester. I sent a footman, but he returned with a note to say they had no interest in attending, but to send word if he had left anything of worth."
"Charming," Mr Mifford smiled, "One can only wonder at the life Mr Parsims led; no family to speak of, no love for his fellow man. It must have been a lonely existence."
"I suppose it was," Henry replied, for the first time feeling a stab of pity for the departed rector. The man had amassed a small fortune through his misdeeds, but what had he gained in the end? Two strangers at his graveside, and no one to mourn him.
"I think that I shall take myself off to The Ring'O'Bells to offer a toast to our departed friend," Mr Mifford said, with a twinkle in his eye, "Would you care to join me?"
"No, thank you," Henry shook his head; the funeral had left him feeling melancholy and he wished to be alone.
"Though, please," he continued, taking a small purse of coins from his breast pocket, "Do have a round on me."
Mr Burke and Mr Hare materialised at that very moment, having made quick work of filling in the grave--their industry inspired, Henry guessed, by the promise of a free drink.
The trio of men departed for the village, leaving Henry alone in the graveyard. He had not said his intentions aloud, but as Mr Mifford hurried the two gravediggers away, Henry guessed that the vicar had known what he would do next.
The graveyard was as old as the church, with headstones dating back centuries scattered like daisies across it. Henry picked his way along the haphazard path, toward the rear of the church, where the Lockheart family graves were located. His father's tombstone stood out amongst the others, being newer and less weather-beaten. It was also far simpler than the previous dukes'--the third duke's being particularly ostentatious--for his father had been a simple man, not much taken with displays of wealth and pomp.
Henry stood for a moment in silence, as he paid his respects. The feeling of guilt which he had been trying to suppress threatened to overwhelm him as he noted the bunch of dahlias--his mother's favourite bloom--placed tenderly at the base of the headstone.
What type of man was he to have neglected his father's grave, as well as his estate, for so long?
A coward, Henry thought, with a jolt of self-revulsion; that's all he was.
Unable to stomach it any longer, Henry turned away from his father's grave, desperate to be away. He had tethered his stallion by the church gate, and once he had untied the reins, Henry mounted him and urged him into a gallop.
He followed the Bath Road for a spell, before veering off down a bridle path which led to a path which ran alongside the river. There, he would be in less danger of running into someone, he thought, not at all in the mood to suffer the presence of another.
His misanthropy was tested, a few minutes later, when he spotted a familiar figure making her way along the path.
Miss Mifford, in a cream coloured walking dress worn beneath a short, fitted spencer, was traipsing along the riverbank, her face hidden somewhat by a fetching bonnet topped with a plume of wh
ite feathers.
"Miss Mifford," Henry called, pulling his steed to a trot, before drawing him to a halt.
"Your Grace," Miss Mifford looked up at him from beneath the brim of her hat, her expression open as ever.
Henry felt his breath catch a little in his throat as she smiled up at him; her earnest goodness was what elevated her looks from a standard beauty to something divine. Henry had known many women during his lifetime, but none could hold a candle to Miss Mifford, whose eyes shone bright with kindness and warmth. The ladies of the ton looked at him with knowing eyes and spoke in half-truths, as though their conversation was but a game to them. Miss Mifford, for all her quirks, was not the sort of girl who would tease a man for her own amusement.
"I am just returning from the funeral," Henry said, once he had dismounted his horse so that he might walk alongside her.
"I trust it went well?" Miss Mifford enquired, all polite, English formality.
"As well as can be expected," Henry was equally proper in his reply. It would not do to confess to Miss Mifford that the whole affair had left Henry feeling melancholic and introspective, much better to discuss the weather or other such benignities. Henry was a duke; it would be unthinkable for him to express an emotion in public, let alone two.
"I expect you feel rather out of sorts after it," Miss Mifford offered, surprising Henry with her directness, "One cannot help but feel affected by death, even if one was not particularly close to the departed."
"It does remind one of one's own mortality," Henry agreed, philosophically, as he wondered how he might navigate the conversation toward the weather.
"And I suppose it made you think of your father," Miss Mifford replied, continuing down the very road Henry had hoped to avoid.
He opened his mouth to offer a curt reply, but to his surprise, he found that the sound which came out was merely a gurgle. His throat burned and his eyes stung, and had Henry not held one of the most prestigious titles in the land, he might have sworn he was on the verge of tears.
Heaven only knew how Miss Mifford interpreted the strange noise that Henry had made into meaning, but somehow she did. Her eyes filled with concern and she reached out for Henry's hand, seemingly without thinking. The instant that she clutched it, she let it go, a blush staining her cheeks.
"Oh, I am sorry," she whispered, in a suitable tone of mortification.
"No, I'm sorry," Henry responded in turn, feeling terribly English for apologising for someone's having felt the need to apologise.
"I should not have mentioned your father," Miss Mifford continued on, determined to right her wrong, "It is obviously still an open wound."
Henry made a noncommittal sound, more restrained than the last noise he had made. For a moment this reply felt adequate, then to his horror, an urge crept over him--the urge to share.
"I'm afraid that it is a wound which refuses to heal," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "I regret my father's passing and I regret that I did not have a chance to apologise to him for my behaviour before he died."
"Was there a great falling out?" Miss Mifford questioned, finally turning to look at him.
"Not exactly," Henry replied, stumbling a little as his stallion nudged him to let him know he was still there, "It's just that I was rather taken by being a young-blood about town, for a spell. I did not visit Northcott Manor as often as I ought, and I did not spend as much time with my father as he would have liked. I was—I fear—a great disappointment."
"Did he tell you as such?" Miss Mifford's voice was no longer sympathetic; it now held a note of incredulity.
"No, he did not," Henry replied, a little stung that she did not believe his confession, "But I knew; the instant that I learned of his death, I realised how awfully I had behaved."
"Guilt is death's painful companion," Miss Mifford replied, her blue eyes soft as she looked at him, "And guilt, Your Grace, is an insidious thing. It can make one believe that something is worse than it is in actuality. I rather think that you have allowed your shame to grow into something that it is not; if your father had been cross with you, or hurt, he would have told you. His Grace was most forthright with his opinions; I have often heard that said of him."
It was true, Henry thought, feeling marginally better. His father was not the type of man who would have allowed Henry to carry on with any behaviour that he did not think fitting of his son.
"My thanks, Miss Mifford," Henry said, feeling the burden of shame lift somewhat from his shoulders.
"Glad to have helped," she replied, cheerfully, "I am a great believer of better out than in."
There was a second of strained silence.
"When it comes to feelings, I mean," she clarified, clearing her throat awkwardly, "Not anything else."
"Of course," Henry assured her.
Miss Mifford gave an audible sigh of relief, as they reached the point where the path diverged in two. One way led along the river, whilst the other wound through a copse of trees to Plumpton.
"I do not think it wise to be seen walking alone together, Your Grace," Miss Mifford decided, "Perhaps it would be best if you were to ride ahead."
As his walking alongside Miss Mifford--or Mary, as he liked to refer to her in his head--had felt so natural, Henry felt a slight prickle of annoyance to be reminded that in the eyes of others, it was not. Their being alone would be viewed as a scandal, which Henry felt sullied what had passed between the pair.
"I was going to ride to The King's Head," he said, wishing to linger a little longer, "To see what Canet has to say for himself, now that we know Parsims was bribing him."
"Do you think Monsieur guilty?" Miss Mifford questioned, her own eyes thoughtful.
"I believe so," Henry said confidently. Canet had outright lied about having interacted with Parsims on the day of his murder--an innocent man would not have cause to do such a thing.
"I was thinking to ask the ladies on the list about Mr Parsims," Miss Mifford replied, her face alight with energy, "Just in case."
"There's no need," Henry stuck out his chest proudly, peacocking for her benefit, "I can assure you that Monsieur Canet is our man."
To Henry's surprise, Miss Mifford did not look impressed by his declaration; she looked rather annoyed instead.
"Well, don't let me keep you," she replied, her plump mouth pouting a little.
It took Henry a moment to realise what was going on inside the mind concealed beneath the fetching bonnet; Miss Mifford was feeling left out. He could have cursed his stupidity. Investigating Parsims' murder had been a task which had brought them together, yet here Henry was, accidentally pushing her away in his quest to play the hero.
"We might never have made any progress if it was not for your inspired recollection about the Hargreaves," Henry said, offering her a smile which he was glad to see she returned easily.
"Oh, really, it was nothing," she said, though she preened like a cat at his words, "It was all you. No one would have believed me innocent without the weight of your opinion behind me."
"That's not true," Henry chided, fully aware that, actually, it was.
"It is," Miss Mifford smiled, "Though I am touched by your modesty, Your Grace."
A salacious thought crossed Henry's mind at her words and he flushed, grateful that Miss Mifford could not know the risqué response which had popped into his head. He felt awkward and flustered, as well as tortured by desire, and in order to disguise his embarrassment, he turned and made a great fuss of mounting his stallion.
"I shall send word on how I fare with Canet," Henry said, feeling imperious as he looked down on Miss Mifford from his saddle.
"I would be much obliged, Your Grace," she replied, her tone now as formal as Henry's own.
Henry touched the brim of his hat in goodbye and cantered away from Miss Mifford, toward the village, desperately trying to push away the thought that he had missed out on what might have been his best--and only--opportunity to kiss Miss Mifford.
Regret mad
e him irritable, and when he reached The King's Head to find that Canet was not there, his temper flared.
"What possible place does a chef have to travel to?" Henry grumbled to Edward, the footman, who seemed to reside permanently in the inn's entrance hall.
"The market in Stroud, Your Grace," Edward answered, apologetically, "Monsieur likes to select the game-birds himself; he does not trust the others."
"I'm sure he does not," Henry replied, thinking that the Frenchman was probably propped up on a bar somewhere in the market town, his shopping long since done.
"Shall I tell him you called?" Edward enquired, but Henry shook his head.
"No," he added, for emphasis. Perhaps it was fortuitous that Canet was out, for Henry was beginning to think it foolish of him to have arrived alone to extract a confession from the cook. It would be best if he were to return later, with Marrowbone in tow.
"Thank you, Edward," Henry dismissed the footman who had been hovering uncertainly before him, "That will be all."
"Your Grace," Edward gave a bow, before hurrying off to deal with two guests who had just come down from their room.
Henry turned to leave the inn, lest the urge to visit the restaurant overcame him, but before he had a chance to slip out the door, a maid approached him.
"Yes?" Henry said, once he realised that the girl's silence was not intentional and she was waiting for his permission to speak.
"Your Grace," the maid bobbed a curtsy, "I have something I need to tell you."
The girl glanced around the entrance hall, as though to make sure that no one was listening. Once she was satisfied that Edward was too busy to make note of her and that the other two guests--an elderly couple--were involved in a squabble, she continued on.
"Edward said that you wished to know if Monsieur Canet had left his rooms on the night of Mr Parsims' murder," the girl whispered in a rush, "I saw him, Your Grace, sneaking back in just after eleven."
"Did you not think to tell Edward about this?" Henry queried, raising an eyebrow.
A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford (Regency Murder and Marriage Book 1) Page 10