Chapter Eighteen
ON THE TENTH day of Christmas, Gabe awoke not to the song’s prophesied leaping lords, but to a lurch of dread as he recalled that his Miss Mifford was no longer… his.
He washed and dressed with great speed, hoping he might outpace his gloom, but alas, it followed him faithfully from his chamber all the way to the breakfast room.
“Good morning,” he greeted Lord and Lady Crabb in what he hoped was a jaunty manner.
The sympathy in their eyes as they offered their return greetings informed him that his acting skills required significant polishing.
“What say you to a hunt, eh, de Roche?” the viscount queried overly cheerfully, as Gabe took his seat. “Nothing like a bit of sport to make a fellow forget his troubles.”
Lady Crabb coughed discreetly, to remind her husband that it was not polite to acknowledge that their guest possessed troubles at all. A stiff upper lip, Gabe recalled, was the English way; he dutifully arranged his mouth into as firm a line as he could muster.
“If you don’t mind, Crabb, I might cry off,” he replied, while waiting for the footman to bring his coffee. “I’ve made other plans for the day.”
There was a pause. Gabe caught a quick flash of alarm in Lady Crabb’s eyes as she attempted to deduce whether his plans involved banging on her cousin’s front door or throwing stones at her window until she answered.
He gave her a brief smile, hoping she might take from it that he did not consider harassment—or damage to property—acceptable tools of romance.
“Oh?” The viscount raised a brow. “Anything interesting?”
Like his wife, Gabe could tell that Lord Crabb was worried about the path down which his heartbroken guest might travel. Unlike the viscountess, however, Gabe was fairly certain that Crabb believed he was headed straight to the pub to drown his sorrows.
Which wasn’t a bad idea at all—though it could wait till later.
“I’m going to continue the investigation into Postlethwaite’s murder,” Gabe said with a shrug. “I should like to see it through to the end.”
“I’ll come with you,” Crabb offered, setting down his cup. “I am the magistrate, after all. It would be bad form to delegate my duties to a guest.”
“If it’s all the same,” Gabe replied, “This is something I’d rather do alone.”
He took a sip of his coffee, valiantly trying to ignore the lengthy pause that followed. When he could no longer do so, he glanced across the table and found the viscount watching him, a faint smile playing about the corners of his mouth.
“A hero’s labour, worthy of Homer,” Crabb observed mildly, approval warming his eyes.
Gabe quelled a blush; was it so obvious that his quest was not for justice, but for Miss Mifford?
“Yes, well…” He cleared his throat. “I suppose I’d best be off.”
He rose from the table, offered Lady Crabb a slight bow, and left the room. In the entrance hall, a footman hurried to fetch his freshly pressed coat, his hat, and his scarf. Adequately armoured against the cold winter morn, Gabe set off for the village, hope making his step light.
He strode resolutely along the Bath Road, determined to make headway in the investigation before lunch. As he passed Primrose Cottage, he could not help but cast a longing glance over the wall, hoping to catch a glimpse of Miss Mifford to inspire his quest—though he found no sign of her.
He presumed that were he to call again, as he had yesterday, he would be met by a frosty Nora informing him that Miss Mifford was not at home.
The maid deserved an increase in her wages, Gabe thought with reluctant admiration, for from her insolent tone and the definitive roll of her eyes, he had been able to gather the unspoken ending to her sentence: not at home, to him.
Not that Gabe could blame her. What woman would wish to receive a man who had bet against proposing to her? She likely thought him a cad of the highest order—and perhaps he was.
A truer gentleman would have called out the entire pub for daring to write her name in a betting book, not given in to superstitions about fate and placed a wager of his own.
And a braver man would have proposed the very moment he realised he wanted her as his wife—negating the need for a betting book entirely.
Despite his brawn, muscle, and battle scars, Gabe was beginning to suspect he was something of a coward. And he would deserve it, he thought grimly, if Miss Mifford chose never to forgive him—even if he did find Postlethwaite’s murderer.
But he would find the murderer nonetheless; for her, if not for them.
And the first stop in finding the culprit was the receiving office.
“Comte de Roche,” Tom Boden stood at once as Gabe entered, accompanied by the cheerful tinkling of the bell above the door. “Back again so soon?”
“Er—yes,” Gabe replied, momentarily abashed as he recalled yesterday’s visit, when he had given in to a decidedly sentimental temptation. “But I’m not here for fripperies today, Tom. I’m here on serious business.”
“You need to send a letter?” Tom straightened briskly, his expression turning officious.
“No.” Gabe’s tone was firm. “I need to discuss other people’s letters—namely the ones Mr Postlethwaite used for blackmail.”
Silence.
Gabe crossed his arms, settling in for a long wait; he had no qualms with silence. In fact, he had often observed that some men revealed more by saying nothing at all.
Case in point: Mr Boden.
The young lad licked his lips, his eyes darting nervously to a spot beneath the counter.
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about, Comte,” he managed at last, though there was a tremulous quiver to his voice.
Gabe sighed; he had hoped the young lad would give in without a fight.
“I’ll give you to the count of three,” he said patiently, lifting a gloved hand to mark the numbers with his fingers. “One… two—”
He never reached three.
Tom lunged for a drawer beneath the counter—but Gabe had been waiting for precisely that. He vaulted the counter with an ease that belied the hearty meals he had enjoyed over the season, his hand closing around the drawer’s handle at the very same moment as Tom’s.
“If you know what’s good for you, Mr Boden,” Gabe said softly, “You’ll step back.”
With his free hand, he swept open his coat to reveal the small pistol tucked into the leather holster strapped beneath his arm.
The colour drained from Tom’s face at the sight of the weapon. He released the handle at once and stepped back.
Gabe yanked the drawer open—expecting to find scores of letters. Instead, there was only one.
“What the devil?” he murmured, retrieving the well-thumbed missive from its hiding place.
He scanned it quickly, his brows lifting a fraction as the contents registered. He blinked and read the first lines again. Behind him, Tom made a strangled, high-pitched noise.
“Well,” Gabe cleared his throat, “this is… certainly not a seditionary tract.”
Tom had turned bright red beneath his freckles.
The edges of the page were creased from frequent handling, the fold worn thin—Mr Boden had read the letter dozens, if not hundreds, of times, Gabe guessed wryly.
And he could hardly fault the lad; at that age, Gabe was certain he would have done the same.
“Have you any idea who ‘my darling enchantress’ might be?” he asked, reading the opening line aloud in a dry tone.
“None, Comte,” Tom replied miserably, his eyes fixed on the toes of his boots.
“Well, we know she has golden hair,” Gabe said cheerfully, before adding, with a mischievous lift of his brows, “Among other assets.”
Tom emitted an involuntary squeak, and Gabe took pity on him.
“Was that the only letter?” he asked, as he tucked the missive into his coat pocket.
Tom shook his head.
“There were more,” he admitted with a shrug. “But I destroyed them all after you got Mr Cleeve’s letter out of me. I wanted done with all this blackmail business.”
“Destroyed them all except this last one,” Gabe commented with amusement, causing Tom to blush once more.
Men, he thought ruefully, were often the basest of creatures.
After a quick warning to Tom to keep their conversation to himself, Gabe left the shop.
He stepped out into the cold air with the letter burning a hole in his pocket.
He was quite certain he had found an important clue—unfortunately, he had no notion whom that clue concerned.
There were dozens of ladies in Plumpton who might match the description in the letter.
Half the village was blonde, when he thought on it.
Why, even Miss Mifford was—
A sudden surge of jealousy shot through him as he wondered, absurdly, whether the letter might have been meant for her.
Impossible, he assured himself, striding briskly through the village.
His robin was far too sweet to know what half the acts described in the letter even were, let alone how to perform them.
He walked on, slightly consoled by this reasoning—though an insecure, jealous part of him continued to fret and gnaw at the thought.
As he neared The Ring, all his worries appeared embodied before him, in the slender, dashing form of Mr Benoit Hardy.
Hardy was fashionably dressed, handsome in a decidedly romantic way—the very picture of a Byronic hero.
In short, he was the complete opposite of Gabe, and precisely the sort of man who might turn the head of an innocent like Miss Mifford.
He was also possibly a French spy, Gabe reminded himself, jealousy making him doubly irrational. Hardy’s eyes tracked him over the top of his sketchbook as he scribbled furiously across the page, adding fresh fuel to the seething dislike burning in Gabe’s chest.
“Hardy,” he called abruptly, giving voice to his inner upset.
He stalked across the road. Hardy jumped to his feet the moment Gabe drew close.
“Comte de Roche,” he greeted affably, then added in smooth, flawless French,
“Comment puis-je vous aider, Comte ?”
Gabe bristled at his excellent manners.
“You may start,” he retorted, “By telling me exactly what you are doing in Plumpton. It is rather a strange coincidence, is it not, that your arrival coincided with Mr Postlethwaite’s murder?”
“You say strange, I say unfortunate—tragic, even,” Hardy sighed. He lowered his gaze, his impossibly long dark lashes casting spidery shadows across his cheekbones.
He had to use some kind of oil on them, Gabe decided, suddenly conscious of his own stubby lashes.
“That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing in Plumpton,” Gabe continued, refusing to be distracted by Hardy’s delicate features. “Or why you’re intent on watching me all the time, scribbling in that notebook of yours.”
For a moment, Hardy stilled, digesting the accusation. Gabe’s fingers twitched, ready to form a fist if the young man decided to lunge at him.
But he did not. Instead, he drew a quiet breath and offered Gabe a sympathetic glance.
“Ah, mon cher Comte,” he said, placing a hand lightly to his chest. “But of course—a man with your history is perfectly right to question my presence here… and my insistence on stalking you with my eyes.”
Gabe stiffened. So he admitted to spying on him!
“I am afraid there is a terribly reasonable explanation for it all,” Hardy went on, unruffled and utterly sincere. “But I think it best if I show you, rather than attempt to explain. Venez, s’il vous pla?t. I will show you now.”
Before Gabe could object, the young painter folded his travelling stool, tucked it beneath his arm, and waved congenially for Gabe to follow him along the slippery path toward The King’s Head Inn.
Gabe hesitated, the raging torrent of anger he had felt moments earlier sputtering and fading beneath Hardy’s gentle outpouring of manners. It was difficult to sustain righteous fury when the other man insisted on behaving so graciously.
Though irritated that he had not been given a chance to vent his spleen, Gabe followed the lad nonetheless.
Hardy led him up the front steps of the inn and into its slightly faded but cosy entrance hall, where a young footman slept soundly at his post beside the front desk.
“That is Edward,” Hardy informed him in a solemn whisper. “He is recently married and, I believe, comes to work only for some respite.”
Gabe let out a snort of laughter, hating himself a little for warming to the young man.
“This way,” Hardy said, guiding him out of the hall and into a room just off it.
It was a large, airy space with tall windows overlooking the village green.
Winter light streamed through them, illuminating the dozens of sketches and watercolours that lined the walls.
Scenes of Plumpton in frost and snow; studies of villagers going about their tasks; a chaotic etching of the ill-fated bazaar—and…
Gabe stopped dead.
Directly before him hung the largest picture in the exhibition.
It showed a couple standing among the crowds outside St Mary’s on Christmas morning, a little apart from everyone else, with eyes only for each other.
The snow around them glowed gold in the lantern light. The gentleman leaned slightly toward the lady, his expression softened with wonder. The lady’s face was lifted toward his, her lips parted in a smile he knew too well.
Gabe’s breath caught. It was him and Miss Mifford. Captured with such tenderness that his heart gave a painful thump in response.
“I found it difficult to properly capture your eyes,” Hardy said with a soft sigh as he stepped beside him. “Which is why you probably noticed me watching you so closely these last few days.”
He turned to Gabe with a gentle, knowing smile.
“Though I see now that your eyes only look that way when you are looking at your beloved. Ah, amour.”
“Indeed,” Gabe managed gruffly, unable to form a more coherent response, for his throat was burning in a most unfamiliar way. He tore his gaze from the picture, unable to look any longer at that past version of himself—so filled with a hope that felt impossible now.
“I pray that Miss Mifford will be similarly moved when she sees it,” Hardy went on, oblivious to Gabe’s inner despair. “She has promised to attend my little exhibition tomorrow evening—will you join us?”
Something stirred in Gabe’s chest, so fragile he barely dared acknowledge it—hope. It felt as though fate were offering him one last chance to prove himself to the woman he loved.
He grinned, unable to help himself; “You can bet on it.”