A Christmas Crime, a Comte, and Miss Mifford (Regency Murder and Marriage #7)
Chapter One
CHRISTMAS WAS A time for family. In theory, it was also Miss Charlotte Mifford’s birthday, but the latter was forever eclipsed by the former.
And, as she scanned the letter in her hand, it appeared that the lack of a family of her own meant she would be celebrating both her birthday and the season with her aunt and uncle once again.
“If you’re quite finished, Miss Mifford,” sighed Mr Postlethwaite, the village postmaster, “Might I ask you to step aside? You’re blocking the counter—this is our busiest time of year.”
Charlotte looked up from her letter and glanced around the shop, which was, of course, completely empty.
“Don’t get your chickens in a twist,” she muttered mutinously under her breath.
“What’s that?” Mr Postlethwaite looked up sharply from his ledger.
“I was just admiring your new display,” Charlotte replied sweetly, drifting from the counter to the window.
The receiving office occupied the back of a small haberdashery, which offered Plumpton’s residents the chance to buy ribbons, lace, and gloves—at prices far more inflated than those in neighbouring Stroud.
Charlotte made a point of admiring the fluttering ribbons—in greens, golds, and reds—that hung in the window before returning to the missive in her hand once Mr Postlethwaite’s attention had turned back to official postal business.
The letter was from her mother and—as was usual—contained several barbs, both veiled and pointed, about Charlotte’s lack of a husband.
As you have not seen fit to grace me with grandchildren, I have decided to spend the season with your brother Edward and his new wife. Amelia is increasing, and it is expected that I shall finally be a grandmother by the New Year. Give my regards to your uncle—and do try not to be a burden to him.
With great affection,
Mama
Charlotte rolled her eyes as she finished reading. There was not even a single mention of her upcoming birthday—though perhaps her mother found the idea that her daughter would soon be a spinster of five-and-twenty too upsetting to voice.
She stifled a morose sigh; of late, the thought had begun to upset her too. She folded the letter, slipped it into the pocket of her skirts, and wandered to one of the display tables to inspect its wares while she waited for her aunt, Mrs Mifford, to return.
Her eyes drifted over folded gloves, lace fans, and hairpins before coming to rest on a porcelain robin, resting on a nest made from a handkerchief.
Though she was not fond of Mr Postlethwaite—who was pompous and officious—she had to admit he possessed a certain artistic flair.
“How much for the robin?” she called over her shoulder.
“One guinea and sixpence,” he replied, without looking up.
Charlotte’s shoulders slumped; that sum exceeded her entire life’s savings. She picked up the ornament to admire it more closely, when the bell above the door gave a cheerful tinkle, announcing another arrival.
Charlotte glanced up, expecting to see her aunt. Instead, she found what could only be described as a bear standing in the doorway—tall, broad, and dark, blocking out the winter light.
The bear wore a beaver hat upon his head and an imperious expression upon his handsome, aristocratic face. His dark eyes swept the shop disdainfully before coming to rest on Charlotte, who at once replaced the robin in its nest, fearing she might drop it.
It wasn’t that she was afraid of him—though her heart was racing rather alarmingly—it was simply that one did not often see men that handsome in Plumpton.
And the sudden shock of it put her at great risk of dropping the porcelain ornament—an object she had already ascertained she could not afford to replace.
“I ’ave need to send a letter to London,” the bear said, his gaze sliding from Charlotte to Mr Postlethwaite.
“Then you’re in the right place, sir,” the postmaster replied, in a tone far more reverent than any he had ever wasted on Charlotte. “Please, step this way.”
The man inclined his head and moved toward the counter.
As he walked, Charlotte could not help observing him—though she told herself it was only curiosity.
Along with the fine beaver hat, he wore a wool coat of exceptional quality and tailoring, and his boots—she was almost certain—were Hobby’s best. His thighs were encased in buckskin breeches—though Charlotte did not wish to look too closely at those, for her cheeks had rather suddenly warmed.
He had every appearance of an English lord, though the faint trace of an accent suggested otherwise.
Mr Postlethwaite nearly bowed as he accepted the sealed missive from the gentleman.
“The King’s Inns,” he murmured, reading the address. “Express, I presume?”
The stranger did not deign to answer; he merely inclined his head.
“Very good, sir. That will be one shilling and threepence,” Mr Postlethwaite continued, unabashed by the silence. “The afternoon coach is expected at three—it will transfer to the London mail, which is quite reliable.”
“We shall see,” the gentleman replied, his tone implying little faith in English efficiency. He drew out a coin purse and counted over the coins; Mr Postlethwaite whisked them into the drawer beneath the counter with a smile that was almost servile.
The man appeared inclined to linger by the till, though he had not—Charlotte noted dourly—been asked to step aside.
“Might I assist you further, sir?” Mr Postlethwaite enquired brightly.
“I have been invited to stay with a friend for Christmas,” the gentleman said at last, the word friend carrying a faint note of disbelief. “I have brought the usual gifts—wines, cheeses, cognac—but I would like something for the lady of the house. What would you suggest?”
Mr Postlethwaite froze, his expression torn between horror and dismay. Charlotte did not envy him his position—a man could not simply buy gloves or ribbons for a lady who was not his wife. It was unseemly. Yet how did one enlighten a man who was clearly one’s better?
“I beg your pardon but I have a suggestion,” Charlotte interrupted brightly, “You might be better served by getting something for the house, rather than for the lady herself. An ornament, perhaps?”
She whirled around and plucked from the display table the robin she had been admiring.
Two dark eyebrows drew together in a frown. Charlotte felt her mouth go dry. Behind the gentleman’s back, Mr Postlethwaite was making frantic chopping motions with his hand.
“Ah,” the bear sighed. “I think I understand. If I buy a gift for the lady herself, ’er husband will think I wish to begin an affair with her?”
“Er—yes,” Charlotte managed, her cheeks now so warm they could have heated Bath Abbey. “If you wish to be direct about it.”
“I always prefer to be direct,” the bear replied, moving from the counter to take the porcelain robin from Charlotte’s hand. “You were admiring this when I came in, no?”
“Y-yes,” Charlotte stammered—there was no point in denying it. Not that she believed herself capable of deception while standing beside this giant of a man; his presence quite evaporated every coherent thought from her head.
“Then I will not purchase this one from under you,” he said solemnly, laying the robin delicately back in its nest. The gentleness with which he handled the little bird in those large gloved hands touched something in Charlotte’s heart.
He continued to peruse the display, while Charlotte stood beside him—uncertain if her presence was required but reluctant to leave.
“Not even the English could take offence at candles,” the bear remarked at last, lifting a pair of wax tapers moulded with laurel leaves and tied with red ribbon.
“I’m sure someone would find a way,” Charlotte said dryly—thinking of the village’s chief gossip, Mrs Canards. At his puzzled look, she added quickly, “Though they will look lovely upon the mantel. A fine gift indeed.”
“Then I will take these,” he decided, turning to beckon Mr Postlethwaite over. He glanced back at Charlotte, the faintest suggestion of a smile on that generous slash of a mouth.
“My thanks for your help, Miss—?”
“Charlotte!”
Mrs Mifford came bustling into the shop, accompanied by the jangle of the bell and a gust of cold wind. At her interruption, the gentleman inclined his head towards Charlotte and withdrew to the counter with Mr Postlethwaite.
“There you are, dear,” Mrs Mifford exclaimed, with irritable affection. “I’ve been looking all over the village for you.”
“You told me to meet you here,” Charlotte protested—though experience had taught her the futility of contradicting her aunt. Nothing could ever deter Mrs Mifford from believing herself correct in all matters.
“I said no such thing,” her aunt replied, but she was swiftly distracted from her own argument by the sight of the bear at the counter.
She froze; and so, instinctively, did Charlotte.
Nothing in the world commanded Mrs Mifford’s attention quite like the appearance of an eligible bachelor in Plumpton. Unfortunately, the only thing that rivaled that fascination was her determination to marry such bachelors off…to Charlotte.
Charlotte braced herself; she could not endure the mortification if Mrs Mifford attempted to ingratiate herself with the bear.
Or was it that she could not bear it?
Despite herself, Charlotte smiled—and when the gentleman turned from the counter, his dark eyes met hers and, to her astonishment, softened into a smile in return.
Then his gaze shifted to Mrs Mifford, and those magnificent brows drew together in a frown that—rather startlingly—left her aunt speechless.
The bear inclined his head briefly to both ladies and strode from the shop, the bell above the door tinkling merrily in his wake.
Once certain he was gone, Mrs Mifford turned to Mr Postlethwaite and enquired nervously, “My goodness, who was that?”
“I shouldn’t say,” Mr Postlethwaite began—already saying it—“But the return address on his missive listed the Comte de Roche.”
“A Comte?” Mrs Mifford breathed, her expression torn.