Chapter Four
MARRIAGE HAD MELLOWED the Duke of Northcott somewhat, Lucian reflected, as he followed his host into the local tavern.
When Lucian had known him in London as a young blood, the duke had deigned to favour only the most exclusive members’ clubs—the sort that demanded a willingness to spill a little blood on entry to prove it ran sufficiently blue.
Northcott had been high on the instep and entirely unapologetic about it—though, if Lucian was honest, he’d been every bit as intolerable himself.
Now here they both were, perilously close to forty and happy to drink warm ale from chipped tankards if it allowed them a little respite.
“Two pints of your finest, sir,” Northcott called to the forbidding gentleman behind the bar.
“’E ain’t got any finest ales,” an inebriated customer cackled from his perch at the far end of the counter. “’E has muckwater and a step above muckwater, ain’t that right Angus?”
The bearded man behind the bar cast the man a dark scowl. “I’ll have nothing the next time you call for a pint, Mr Marrowbone, if you don’t watch your mouth.”
“Mr Marrowbone is the local constable,” Northcott informed Lucian, as Angus pulled them two pints.
Lucian raised a brow at this morsel of local knowledge; thank heaven Plumpton was a sleepy backwater, for he could not imagine Mr Marrowbone capable of upholding the law.
“Let us hope no one gets murdered on his watch,” Lucian lifted up the pint that Northcott had just handed him in toast.
“Er, yes. Quite.”
The duke gave a laugh that could only be described as nervous, then gestured to an empty snug toward the back of the pub. Once both men were seated, they each took a large sip of their pints.
Lucian waited a beat, before he wryly observed; “I believe Angus served us the muckwater.”
“It tastes better the more you drink,” Northcott informed him, with the confidence of a man who had experience battering his taste-buds into submission with the stuff.
Indeed, the second pint went down much easier than the first, and by the time both men were enjoying their third pint, they were joined by Northcott’s brother-in-law, Lord Crabb.
“Jane allowed me shore-leave,” the viscount said, as he took a seat.
The viscount had—Lucian knew—amassed a fortune sailing the high-seas, before unexpectedly inheriting a local title and setting up home with the second eldest daughter of the Mifford clan.
“One has to escape from behind their wife’s skirts every now and then,” Northcott chortled. The duke’s eyes then strayed to the clock on the wall to make certain he was within his allotted curfew, somewhat nullifying his masculine bravado.
“Permission to attend was granted on the condition that I keep an ear out for any dark mutterings about Mr Hardwick’s plans,” Crabb cast a suspicious eye at the patrons of the tavern.
“Do you expect trouble?” Lucian asked, with some surprise. “Plumpton does not strike me as the sort of village in which violence might erupt.”
Northcott and Crabb exchanged a wry glance, which let Lucian know his belief in the peace of Plumpton was somewhat misplaced.
Over another two pints, the viscount and the duke outlined several murders that had occurred in the village over recent years, many of which had been solved by one or other of the Mifford sisters, and their respective husbands.
“The grandes dames of Almack’s will have a bloodbath on their hands, if word gets out that solving a murder is a surefire way to find a husband,” Lucian commented, as the pair finished the tale of the most recent case.
“I would have married Mary murder or no,” Northcott—who was now quite tipsy—said, a dream-like smile on his face. “Cupid’s arrow struck me the moment I saw her. Granted, so did a rock. But still; true love.”
Lucian was tempted to question the duke further but the door to the tavern swung open and the whole room fell quiet as two men entered. Given the ominous silence, Lucian was tempted to guess that one of the men was the infamous Silas Hardwick.
“Two pints please, Angus,” one of the fellows called.
He was a tall chap, with a shock of blonde hair that was so tousled it looked as though he had just walked through a gale. His expression was affable and congenial, thought from the air of entitlement that he exuded, Lucian guessed he was neither.
“This pub don’t serve thieves,” a gentleman at the bar called snidely.
“I serve Mr Marrowbone nightly and he’s been stealing a living for years,” Angus retorted, opting for humour to diffuse the taut atmosphere.
A few patrons gave appreciative guffaws while Mr Marrowbone protested his innocence, then a hum of chatter started up again. Lucian watched, from the corner of his eye, as Angus quickly pulled two pints for the gentlemen, who then retired to a seat near the fire.
“That’s the famous Mr Hardwick?” Lucian clarified in a whisper.
Northcott and Crabb nodded glumly.
“He of the diverted stream?” Lucian continued, then his mind slipped to his conversation with Mrs Mifford, “And philandering?”
“Allegedly he’s bedded half the village,” Lord Crabb said wryly. “I suppose we’ll have to wait until after Twelfth Night to see if Plumpton is overrun with titan-haired babes to confirm the rumours.”
“He doesn’t strike me as a the sort of man women would choose to philander with,” Lucian observed.
To his eye, Mr Hardwick looked a little unkempt; his coat was made of rumpled satin, its obscene colour of coquelicot red only highlighting its need for a good flat-iron.
His shirt protruded through a gap in his waistcoat—which was already strained around the middle—while the cravat at his throat was askew. And that was just his top-half.
“Apparently some women are drawn to him,” Lord Crabb gave a shrug. “I don’t like to dissect the why of it too deeply. If I was to hazard a guess, I would say he’s charming as well as wealthy.”
“Women do love to be charmed,” Northcott agreed before turning his gaze to Lucian. “Speaking of which, I noted that Miss Hughes appears quite charmed by you.”
As Miss Hughes had not shown any inkling of finding Lucian charming and because his friend was not that observant, Lucian deduced that Northcott had been urged to investigate by his wife.
“Your mother-in-law thinks we would make a fine match,” was all Lucian cared to share in reply.
His pride still rankled a little from Miss Hughes’ non-reaction to his plan.
Most single ladies might simper and preen to learn that they’d be drawn into subterfuge with an earl, but not Miss Hughes.
She appeared completely unimpressed by both him and his title.
As a consummate host, Northcott grimaced when he heard that his mother-in-law was once again interfering in his guest’s affairs. Lucian hid a smile and was saved from elaborating any further by the arrival of another group of men to the pub.
“Here comes trouble,” Lord Crabb whistled.
Lucian turned his head and sighted three gentlemen standing at the bar, amongst them Miss Hughes’ father.
“They don’t look like ruffians,” Lucian instinctively moved to defend Mr Hughes.
“They’re not,” the viscount agreed, “But each one of them stands to suffer if Silas proceeds with his plan to divert the stream.”
Indeed, an expectant hush had fallen over the pub as the patrons all glanced—none too discreetly—between Silas Hardwick and his companion, and the newcomers.
At first it appeared that peace would prevail, as the new group took their pints and retreated to a seat in the corner. However, once they spotted Silas, the fragile calm proved temporary.
“You’ve got some nerve thinking you can drink in here, Hardwick,” one of the men roared, as he pushed back his chair to stalk over to Hardwick’s table.
“Now, now, we don’t want any trouble, do we Mr Marrowbone?” Angus called anxiously from behind the bar. He turned to look for the constable, who had slipped from his seat and was half-way toward the door.
“Indeenin we don’t,” Mr Marrowbone answered weakly, his gaze fixed longingly on the exit he had so nearly reached.
Mr Hughes rose from his chair to join his friend, and placed a restraining hand on the younger man’s shoulder.
“He’s not worth your trouble, Jem,” he said, loud enough for the whole pub to hear the derisive tone of his voice
Silas Hardwick’s boyish face curled into an angry scowl. He jumped to his feet so quickly that his chair fell to the floor with a clatter.
“Not worth your trouble?” Hardwick questioned, with a sniff. “I’m worth more than the two of you combined. And when your farms dry up and die I’ll take great pleasure in knowing it was I who sent you both to the workhouse.”
“Now, now, Mr Hardwick. That’s uncalled for,” Silas’ small, bespectacled companion cried with a squeak.
“No one will mourn when their farms fail,” Silas ignored his friend to double-down on his threats.
“And no one will mourn when you’re six feet under, Hardwick,” Mr Hughes replied coldly. “Which is where you’re heading. Mark my words, you’ll meet your comeuppance one of these days.”
Having said his piece, Mr Hughes turned his back on Mr Hardwick, pulling his friend away with him. Jem returned to the table to join the third man from their group but Mr Hughes stayed standing.
“I’ve lost my thirst,” Lucian heard him tell his friends, before he donned his hat and left.
Once he had gone, the silence that had fallen over the pub receded and a hum of whispers took its place, as the patrons all excitedly dissected the altercation.
“Plumpton is far livelier than I had first credited,” Lucian commented, as he sipped on the last of his pint. Like Mr Hughes, his desire for another had vanished. He felt slightly queasy and unexpectedly anxious for Miss Hughes’ father.
“Let us hope that this goes no further,” Lord Crabb answered darkly.
The three men sipped on their pints a while longer, the jovial atmosphere of earlier now vanished. The argument had obviously ruined Mr Hardwick’s enjoyment too, for he and his companion departed—the former muttering loudly about buying the pub and barring all troublemakers.
Lucian, Crabb, and Northcott, waited an appropriate number of minutes after Hardwick’s departure, before they decided to call it a night.
“We’ll see you tomorrow for dinner,” Northcott said to Lord Crabb, as they bid him goodbye outside the door.
The viscount tipped his hat to them both, then took off in the opposite direction toward Upper Plumpton.
“I do hope Mr Hughes doesn’t do anything rash,” Northcott said glumly, as the two men walked—on slightly wobbly legs—through the village.
“Mr Hughes has a good head on his shoulders,” Lucian replied firmly, as though he had known the man his whole life rather than one dinner.
Northcott nodded in agreement, though his expression remained worried.
A full moon glowed high in the sky, bright amongst a tapestry of stars. Plumpton was asleep; the shops shuttered and the houses in darkness.
They walked on in silence through the village, at the bottom of which they crossed the bridge. The London Road stretched ahead of them, dark, empty, and slightly ominous.
Lucian was just about to comment that they should have taken the carriage, when a loud shot rang out ahead shattering the stillness of the night.
Both men froze.
“Probably poachers,” Northcott murmured reassuringly.
His theory was immediately disproved by the sound of someone groaning loudly in pain. This was then followed by the sound of another loud shot. Then silence.
Lucian’s alcohol haze vanished in an instant; he took off at a sprint with Northcott hot at his heels. The only sound now was that of their Hessian boots pounding the ground as they raced along the dark road.
Just beyond the rise of the road they sighted a large red mass. Lucian inhaled sharply, knowing instantly who it was.
“It’s Hardwick,” he affirmed as he reached the body.
Silas Hardwick lay sprawled at an odd angle, one hand clutched futilely to his chest, his titan-hair gleaming in the moonlight.
“Lud,” Lucian exhaled despondently, “This is going to cause a bit of trouble.”