A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford (Regency Murder and Marriage Book 1)

by Claudia Stone

  Outside, the village square was also crowded; groups of people stood together, discussing amongst themselves what had happened. As Henry exited The King's Head, a familiar figure caught his eye.

  Miss Mifford, dressed in the walking gown she had worn earlier, though looking slightly more dishevelled--as though she had just woken--stood amongst a small group of ladies.

  Not caring a jot for propriety, Henry made a beeline for her, wishing to share what he had just discovered. It struck Henry, as he walked, that it was Miss Mifford's opinion which he valued above all others. It was her wise counsel which he wished to hear. Which was funny, for during the course of his lifetime, Henry had not talked with many women. Unless one counted his mother, which he did not.

  "Miss Mifford," Henry called, as he approached.

  Miss Mifford looked up at the sound of his voice and detached herself from her flock. Her flock, in turn, all turned their attention to Henry, and Henry realised that the group consisted of all the Mifford sisters. It was a little bit disconcerting to be watched by four women who all had the same shaped eyes, he thought, though he tried to not let his nervousness show.

  "Canet has been murdered," Henry whispered to Miss Mifford, his hand reaching out to draw her slightly away from her sisters.

  "Yes, I'd heard," Miss Mifford replied, her cheeks stained pink as she stole a glance down at Henry's hand, which was still clutching her arm.

  Dash it, Henry thought, he had not even realised that he was still touching her. Though, as he drew his hand away, he could not help but mourn the loss of her warmth.

  "We found money in Canet's room," Henry continued, hoping that the act of speaking would spare his own blushes, "Piles of money and a note which indicated that Canet was selling poached game in Stroud. I think whoever he was working with must have killed him--an argument over coin, perhaps."

  Miss Mifford furrowed her brow in thought, as she digested what Henry had told her. She clicked her fingers as a thought struck her, and turned her eyes back to Henry.

  "What if the person who killed Canet is the same person who killed Mr Parsims?" she questioned, excitedly, "We know that Mr Parsims was bribing people--what if he was bribing both Monsieur Canet and his accomplice at the same time? Perhaps Canet got cold feet when he realised the lengths his accomplice was willing to go to conceal their scheme, and out of fear that he would report him, this man murdered Canet?"

  It made perfect sense, Henry thought, wishing that he could kiss Miss Mifford for her genius. As they had an audience, Henry refrained, and offered her a hearty clap on the shoulder instead.

  "I think you're right," Henry agreed, "Who else was on that list? We had Canet, Wickling, Walker--"

  "Fairweather!"

  Henry blinked, as the name reignited a memory in his mind. Fairweather had been arguing with a farmer, the day that Henry had spoken to him about Mr Parsims' murder. What was it that the farmer had said?

  "Don't think I don't know what you're up to at night."

  Fairweather's poaching activities had obviously not gone unnoticed by the locals, though few would have felt inclined to report him. And Henry himself had noticed the man's discomfort when he had mentioned Canet. It all made such sense.

  "Tell no one what we have discussed," Henry whispered to Miss Mifford.

  "I'm afraid I shall be thoroughly interrogated by my sisters, but I won't," Miss Mifford replied, with an annoyed glance at the three young ladies who were openly ogling them.

  "Will you--?" she began hesitantly, as Henry made to step away.

  "Will you let me know the outcome, if you have time?" she continued, her eyes imploring Henry to say yes.

  As her blue eyes held his, Henry felt that there was nothing he would not do for Miss Mifford, so he was thankful that her request was so simple. It was rather late in the evening to be setting off on a romantic quest to slay a dragon, or launch a thousand ships and burn the topless towers of Ilium in her name--but he would have, had she asked.

  "I shall call at Primrose Cottage on my return," Henry vowed, taking her hand and squeezing it reassuringly--and not caring a fig that the act was witnessed by dozens.

  Henry turned on his heel and set off across the square, ignoring the curious gazes of the villagers which followed him as he passed. He stopped briefly at The Ring, to retrieve Marrowbone who had decided to conduct an investigation into a pint of ale.

  "I was just about to begin questioning the patrons," the constable swore, as Henry dragged him from his perch.

  "No need," Henry replied, "For I have found our man."

  Henry frogmarched the constable outside to his carriage, which was waiting outside The King's Head. He instructed the driver to stop first at Northcott Manor, where he retrieved his gun, Mr Feathers--also armed--and another footman to swell their numbers.

  "I knew it was poachers," Mr Feathers sighed, as the carriage bounded along the dark country road, "Well, I didn't know, but I did. I asked Mr Partridge, Lord Crabb's keeper, and he said he was missing birds too, but just put it down to the inclement weather."

  "Perhaps they rotated estates, so as not to arouse suspicion?" Henry suggested; he was rather fond of Mr Feathers, who had been gamekeeper since his grandfather's time, and wished to assuage his guilt.

  "Aye," the old man scowled, "I'd say that's what they did. When I spot this Mr Fairweather, I'll aim straight for the spot between his eyes."

  "Our guns are for self-defence," Henry counselled, slightly alarmed by his bloodlust, "We want Fairweather alive so that he can be tried in a court of law."

  "Well, if he tries to escape," Mr Feathers responded, stroking his rifle as affectionately as one might stroke a cat, "I might not be able to restrain myself."

  As it was, there was no need to shoot a fleeing Mr Fairweather, for when Henry and his entourage arrived at the Fairweather's farmhouse, they found that the farmer was not home.

  "He's out," Mrs Fairweather said in reply to Henry's query into her husband's whereabouts.

  "Out where?" Henry pressed, though Mrs Fairweather gave no answer.

  She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, her face pale and her hands shaking. She was a remarkably striking woman, Henry noted absently, even the bruise which marred her cheek could not take away from the beauty of her features.

  "I cannot say," she finally answered, allowing her green eyes to meet Henry's.

  Cannot and would not, Henry thought, were two very different things. A wife would never condemn her husband and Henry found that he admired her courage--even if it was an impediment.

  "Do you know where he was today?" Henry pressed, "Or this afternoon and evening?"

  "In the morning he went to Stroud for the market," Mrs Fairweather replied, obviously thinking this an innocent enough remark to make, "As for his whereabouts after his return, I really cannot say."

  "Does your husband trade at the market weekly?" Henry queried, and as Mrs Fairweather paled, he knew instinctively that she was well aware of her husband's escapades.

  "He is a farmer, Your Grace," Mrs Fairweather offered, her voice shaking slightly, "Of course he does."

  "I am not talking of tillage and dairy," Henry's voice was cool, "I am talking of poached game. Did you know what your husband was up to, Mrs Fairweather? It is doubtful that you would have failed to notice the extra money his activities brought in. Did he share with you that his scheme was discovered, and that Mr Parsims was bribing him?"

  At the mention of Mr Parsims' name, Mrs Fairweather began to shake so uncontrollably that Henry took pity on her and guided her to a chair.

  "Do you think your husband capable of murder, Mrs Fairweather?" Henry questioned, "For it seems likely that he killed not only Mr Parsims, but Monsieur Canet too. Is that something you think possible?"

  Mrs Fairweather let out a long, shuddering breath, and stared down at her hands, which were worrying the material of her skirts. After a moment, she lifted her head to look at Henry, her eyes bleak.

  "As I sai
d, Your Grace," she whispered, "I really cannot say."

  Henry did not have the heart to press the poor wretch further, though he also did not have the opportunity, for the sound of shouting came from outside. Mr Fairweather must have returned, Henry thought, and he rushed out the door.

  Outside, illuminated by the light which shone out through the windows, Henry saw his two footmen struggling with the enraged farmer, as Mr Feathers stood guard with his rifle.

  "That's enough, Fairweather," Henry called, afraid that Mr Feathers might let loose a volley of shots in the excitement of it all, "You're caught."

  "Caught capitally, Your Grace," Mr Feathers cried, "He'd a sackful of pheasant with him when he rode in."

  Henry, who was more concerned by the murders than the poaching, cast an eye around for Mr Marrowbone, who had disappeared. The constable arrived on the scene a moment later, whistling a tune as he buttoned up his breeches.

  "A call of nature," he offered in apology to Henry's quelling glare.

  "You have been caught, Fairweather," Henry continued, stalking over to the farmer, who had a footman holding on to each arm, "And not only for poaching; we know that it was you who murdered Mr Parsims and Monsieur Canet."

  "No," the farmer gave a howl of rage, "I didn't murder anyone. I'll admit to the poaching, but I didn't kill anyone."

  "You murdered Mr Parsims because he knew about your scheme," Henry continued, ignoring the man's rantings, "He had been extorting money from you for heaven knows how long, and you were tired of it--weren't you, Fairweather?"

  "No," Mr Fairweather shook his head, his expression one of rage.

  "You were tired of wondering if one day he would expose you to the authorities, then on the night of the assembly you saw him flirting with your wife and something inside you snapped."

  "No," Fairweather shook his head stubbornly, "That's not what happened.After I left the ball, I went to go hunting. I knew I could take what I wanted, with everyone distracted by that ruddy assembly."

  "A likely story," Mr Marrowbone boomed, taking Henry aback with his enthusiasm. The constable had puffed out his chest in self-importance and was looking almost professional to Henry's eye.

  "You're playing the oldest trick in the book," Mr Marrowbone continued, "Admitting to a lesser sin, in order to distract from the greater sin you committed. Don't think you can try that with me, laddie, for I do it myself with Mrs Marrowbone. You can't cheat a cheater."

  Well, Henry thought with a rueful sigh, there went the air of professionalism.

  "After you killed Mr Parsims," Henry continued, lest Mr Marrowbone think it prudent to speak again, "Monsieur Canet got nervous. He knew that it was you who had murdered the rector and he was getting cold feet about your joint endeavour. Did he tell you when you returned from Stroud that he no longer wished to facilitate the sale of your poached game?"

  "No."

  Again, Fairweather stubbornly shook his head. All the fight had gone out of him and he was no longer struggling against the footmen's grip. He was, Henry thought, thoroughly defeated.

  "You became enraged," Henry continued, picturing the scene clearly in his eye, "You were angry that your line of credit might run out and fearful that Canet would turn traitor--so you stabbed him in the neck."

  "I did no such thing," Mr Fairweather roared, pulling against his captors in one final show of strength, "Monsieur Canet was my friend. He was the one who showed me that I did not have to live in servitude to the landed gentry; he showed me how unequal this land is, and how men like me toil and suffer for others' gain. I took a stand against the corruption of our land, and I will not apologise for it, but I did not kill Monsieur Canet."

  "That sounds like seditious talk to my ears," Henry replied, unimpressed by Fairweather's ranting, "And I wonder if you shared your ill-gotten gains with those less fortunate than you again?"

  Fairweather was conspicuously mute.

  "No," Henry sighed, "I did not think so."

  "Right, boys," Marrowbone interrupted, clapping his hands together impatiently, "I have my man. Let's take him to Stroud, to the cell in the courthouse. I'll arrange transport to Bristol tomorrow."

  Henry blinked, taken aback by the appearance of Marrowbone's hitherto hidden organisational skills.

  "Thank you for your help in the investigation, Your Grace," Marrowbone continued, as he supervised the footmen in loading Fairweather into the carriage, "I shall take it from here."

  "And take all the credit, no doubt," Henry muttered, though he found he was not too put out by Marrowbone wishing to claim all the glory.

  There was only one person whom Henry wished to share the successful conclusion of this saga with, and that was Miss Mifford.

  Time moved slowly for a spell, as Henry sorted out the practicalities of the next steps. He explained to a shocked and silent Mrs Fairweather that her husband was being taken to the court in Stroud, where the next day a judge would likely have him sent on to Bristol to the Crown Court there. Henry did not say that this court would likely condemn Mr Fairweather to hang, but from the thin-lipped frown she gave, he knew that Mrs Fairweather knew this herself.

  "I will send a carriage to take you to Stroud for the hearing," Henry said, before he left. Mrs Fairweather was as much a victim of her husband's actions as anyone else, and Henry hoped that he might be able to ease some of the burden she would face in the coming days and weeks.

  With Mr Fairweather ensconced inside the carriage with Mr Marrowbone and the two footmen, Henry was forced to ride home on the footman's perch, a rather chilly experience. At Northcott Manor, he, along with Mr Feathers, bid goodbye to the carriage which would journey on to Stroud.

  "Goodnight, Your Grace," Mr Feathers said, as he disappeared off to his lodgings--a small cottage on the east side of the grounds.

  "My thanks to you for your help," Henry called after him, before making his own way to the stables, where he roused a groomsman to saddle his horse.

  The night was clear, with not a cloud in the sky, and Henry rode to Plumpton under the light of the moon and a tapestry of stars. Over the course of his journey, he had wondered if he was being foolish in thinking that Miss Mifford might have waited up so late for him, but as he approached Primrose Cottage, he saw a light in one of the windows. Miss Mifford's face appeared at the sound of his mount's hooves clattering along the path, and she waved down to Henry, before disappearing again.

  Henry dismounted and tethered his steed, before making his way up the garden path to the door. It creaked open to reveal Miss Mifford, still dressed in her walking dress from earlier, with a candle in her hand.

  "Everyone went to bed hours ago," she whispered apologetically, "Papa said it unlikely that you would call tonight, but I knew that you would come. Tell me, how did it go? Did Fairweather confess?"

  Though the night was cold, Henry was warmed by her faith in him. He had promised her that he would return, and her belief in his promise had not wavered, even as the hours had stretched on.

  "He confessed only to the poaching," Henry said.

  Miss Mifford's face fell with disappointment at this news, and Henry rushed to console her.

  "It is to be expected," he explained in a whisper, "Poaching is illegal, but not a capital offence. He might be sent to prison or the penal colonies if he is found guilty of it, but if he is found guilty of murder, he will swing."

  "Oh," Miss Mifford bit her lip, "I did not think of that. How wretched though, that he will not come clean when it is so obvious that it is he who is guilty. What did he say about Mr Parsims? Did he admit that he was being bribed?"

  "No," Henry shook his head, "Perhaps he thought that if he admitted to that, that it would be seen as a motive by the courts."

  "The fiend," Miss Mifford cried, then to Henry's surprise she began to sniffle.

  Startled, Henry took the handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her, and relieved her of the candle so that she might have both hands free.

  "I'm sorry," Miss
Mifford dabbed her cheeks, "I am just thinking of poor Mrs Walker; I saw her after you left and she is inconsolable."

  "I'm afraid you've lost me," Henry replied, wondering who on earth this Mrs Walker was.

  Through her tears, Miss Mifford explained about the widow, her relationship with Monsieur Canet, and their engagement which had not yet been publicly announced.

  "They decided on the night of the assembly that they would ask my father to read the banns," she finished, more composed now that the act of talking had distracted her from her tears, "That must have been where Monsieur Canet was going when he was spotted out that night, and he must not have wanted to reveal it for fear it might damage her reputation."

  The Frenchman had some scruples, Henry thought with a pang of guilt.

  A silence fell between them for the first time; Miss Mifford appeared lost in her own thoughts, while Henry felt lost in Miss Mifford. He was so accustomed to seeing her well presented, that he found her dishevelment utterly charming. Strands of her blonde tresses had escaped from her bun and he longed to reach out and tuck them back in, just to see if they felt as silky as they looked.

  Desire grew in his belly, as Henry became painfully aware that they were alone. His heart hammered in his chest, so loud that he wondered if Miss Mifford could hear it.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Mary. Mary. Mary.

  Miss Mifford glanced up, and Henry wondered if he had actually whispered her name aloud. Her eyes, even in the dimness of candlelight, shone brightly as she looked at him. Her beauty stole his breath away--as well as his sense of reason--and Henry, acting on impulse, leaned forward to kiss her.

  Miss Mifford started momentarily, as Henry drew her toward him, but as his lips met hers, she relaxed into his arms with a happy sigh. It was the most pleasurable moment of Henry's life, hampered only by the aching of one of his arms, which he held at an awkward angle, for he was still clutching the candle.

  The stress, worry, and sadness of the day's events faded to nothing as Henry held Mary. She enveloped all his senses with her warmth, her soft scent, and her plush lips. Henry would happily have kissed her all night, had a noise from inside not interrupted them.