Chapter Twelve
GABE’S SUDDEN INTEREST in sedate walks through the countryside had not gone unnoticed by his host.
“There’s a stable filled with fine horseflesh, de Roche,” Lord Crabb commented innocently, when Gabe announced his intention to walk to the village. “Perhaps you might prefer to take one of them for a hack?”
“A gentle stroll to the village is all I need to blow the cobwebs away,” Gabe assured his friend, shrugging on his coat as he edged closer to the door.
“That does sound appealing,” the viscount mused. “Perhaps I’ll join you?”
There followed a lengthy pause, during which Gabe debated how rude it would be to rebuff his host’s offer of company. Luckily, Lord Crabb took pity on him, his face breaking into an amused grin as he noted his friend’s discomfort.
“On second thoughts, I’d best not,” the viscount said with a wink. “I’m expecting a visit from Mr Marrowbone regarding the investigation—he’s assured me that he interviewed everyone who attended midnight service the night of the murder and not one person witnessed a thing.”
“Remarkable,” Gabe conceded.
“Balderdash, more like,” Crabb snorted, before adding—alarmingly gently— “You might run into Miss Mifford in the vestry at St Mary’s; according to Jane, she’s been tasked with sorting the monies raised from the sale of assembly tickets.”
Gabe’s hand paused mid-button as heat flooded his face.
“I just thought you might like to know, that’s all.” Lord Crabb murmured quietly, as he turned his attention back to the ledgers on his desk. “And I’ll say no more.”
“Thank you,” Gabe managed, hoping his friend would understand that he was grateful for both the information and the discretion.
He was not, after all, a man accustomed to discussing his feelings—not least because he was not used to experiencing many feelings outside the usual masculine range.
Hunger, thirst, lust, anger—he could wax lyrical on any of those manly pursuits.
But the tendre he felt toward Miss Mifford… that was another matter entirely.
He could hardly begin to understand it himself, and he certainly could not sit Lord Crabb down and explain that every time he saw her, his heart fluttered, birds sang, and he was seized by the absurd urge to write reams of poetry about her golden hair.
No, Crabb would laugh uproariously if Gabe ever confessed such nonsense.
His hand had just closed around the door handle when Lord Crabb looked up from his papers.
“Don’t hide your feelings too deep down, de Roche,” he advised, not unsympathetically. “Everyone needs a bit of encouragement.”
Gabe paused, then inclined his head in silent acknowledgement before twisting the handle and stepping out. Sacré bleu, he thought, striding across the cavernous hall toward the front door—he must be a lost cause indeed if an Englishman was advising him to be more expressive.
Outside, a chill wind blew, but Gabe paid it no heed as he hurried down the sweeping drive of Crabb Hall and out through the gates to the Bath Road.
The only thing he regretted, as he traced a quick path to the church, was not taking Crabb up on his offer of a horse.
While he had his suspicions that his heart might never be the same when his visit to Plumpton ended, he was quite certain that his boots would never recover.
He found Miss Mifford alone in the vestry—a cramped little room adjoining the church, half office, half storeroom, half chaos.
For a moment he simply watched her bent over a ledger, quill in hand and tongue caught lightly between her teeth as she totted up figures.
Then he gave a light rap on the doorframe.
“Oh—hello,” she said breathlessly, glancing up.
Progress, Gabe thought with a hidden grin. She was beginning to sound as flustered as he felt.
“I was told I might find you here,” he said, ducking his head as he passed under the lintel. “I was hoping to catch a moment alone with you.”
“To discuss the investigation?” she guessed, setting aside her quill. A stray lock of hair escaped her bonnet; she brushed it away, leaving a faint smudge of ink on her cheek.
Gabe—who could think of a dozen things he’d rather do with her than discuss a murder, but could hardly voice them in a church—nodded solemnly.
Only after he’d nodded did he realise he had nothing new to tell her; he’d spent most of the previous night imagining what their children might look like instead of mulling over clues.
Fortunately, Miss Mifford had been far more industrious than he.
“I was hoping to bump into you,” she confessed, gesturing for him to take the chair opposite her little desk. “Flora—I mean, Mrs Thorne—led me to what I think might be a clue.”
In a hushed whisper, she explained that the berries used to poison Mr Postlethwaite could be found in only two spots around Plumpton—and that those very places made up the circuitous walking route Mr Cleeve took every day.
“Every day?” Gabe raised a brow, wondering how the man’s boots bore it.
“Every day,” she confirmed, then added, “And there’s more!”
A blush crept into her cheeks as she told him of her latest encounter—one that sounded more like an altercation—with Mrs Canards.
“I know she’s awful, but I don’t truly think she killed Mr Postlethwaite,” she finished on a sigh. “Which leaves us only with Mr Cleeve.”
“By the sound of your sleuthing, he seems the most possible suspect,” Gabe said encouragingly. “Lord Crabb is meeting with Mr Marrowbone today. Apparently the constable found nothing out of the ordinary during his own enquiries.”
“When one does nothing, one finds nothing,” Miss Mifford observed mildly. “Do you think what we have is enough to go to Lord Crabb with? I don’t know if Mr Cleeve can be accused of murder based only on his walking route.”
“True,” Gabe conceded, frowning thoughtfully. “Though Mrs Canards might have led us to another clue—she all but told us that Mr Postlethwaite snooped through the letters in his care. And Mr Cleeve himself told me he’d fallen out with the postmaster for poking into his affairs.”
“Do you think Mr Postlethwaite was attempting to blackmail Mr Cleeve?” Charlotte wondered aloud. She ran her thumbnail along her lower lip, eyes distant in thought.
Gabe’s gaze followed, caught by the delicate motion as she traced the outline of her lips. You’re in a church, he reminded himself sternly—though for a moment he imagined sweeping aside the table between them and hauling her into his arms.
“I’m starting to think just that,” he said, his reply slightly strangled. “I might pay a call on young Mr Boden in the receiving office—see if he’s noticed anything amiss.”
He pushed back his chair and stood; he didn’t want to leave her, but he didn’t trust himself not to give in to the urge to draw her into his arms. His heart was thudding so loudly in his chest that he feared another of her smiles might make it beat louder still, until it drowned out his good intentions.
“I’ll walk with you,” she decided, dropping her hand from her mouth to smile up at him..
“Wonderful,” Gabe managed, the word emerging in a tone rather higher than he would have liked.
He stood politely by the door as she locked away the bag of coins and placed the ledger in a drawer. Then she fetched her cape from the coat stand in the corner and draped it over her shoulders.
“Ready,” she declared, smiling again.
Gabe’s eyes drifted from her soft blue ones to the tiny ink splodge on her cheek. The temptation was too much.
“You have something on your—” he began, though he never finished.
His hand moved of its own accord, thumb brushing gently over the stain.
It lifted easily. He should have dropped his hand then, but instead he found himself cupping her chin, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek.
He’d really taken Crabb’s advice on expressing his feelings to heart, he realised with a start.
Charlotte stilled, her eyes widening, her rosebud lips parting in a soft O of surprise at his boldness. Gabe hesitated—just long enough to see whether she meant to deliver a swift knee to his unmentionables for his audacity—before daring to draw her closer.
She did not look offended by his overtures. If anything, she looked curious.
“Charlotte,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion as he lowered his head, intent on capturing her lips. Oh, how sweet her kiss would taste—
“Clumsy me!” cried a male voice from beyond the door, followed by the crash of something very heavy hitting the floor.
They sprang apart at once at the sound. Gabe felt a surge of guilt, while Miss Mifford, cheeks aflame, adjusted her bonnet with nervous fingers.
“Charlotte, I didn’t know anyone was in here—what a surprise,” Mr Mifford said as he shuffled into the room, a parish register clutched in his hands. He did not sound at all surprised.
“I was just going through the entries before year’s end,” he continued, “To make certain I’ve not overlooked a birth, death, or marriage.
Terribly awkward business, discovering you’ve christened a child whose parents you neglected to officially register as married. Throws the entire ledger into disarray.
The vicar paused then, and made a great show of appearing astonished to find Gabe standing in the corner.
“Comte de Roche—what a pleasant surprise.”
“Mr Mifford,” Gabe replied, inclining his head. “I was just—” His voice faltered as he flailed for an excuse. When he looked up, he found the vicar regarding him with wry amusement.
“Seeking to make a contribution to the poor box, perhaps?” Mr Mifford suggested mildly, his two bushy brows lifting. “We’re always grateful for unexpected generosity.”
“Yes,” Gabe replied, nodding with a mixture of enthusiasm and relief. “That’s exactly the reason for my visit. I wished to make a donation to the poor.”
Mr Mifford’s brows rose a fraction.
“A sizeable one,” Gabe added quickly, sensing he had not entirely redeemed himself in the vicar’s eyes.