Chapter Eight
FOR SOMEONE WHO professed to be unsociable, Lucian found himself oddly eager to pay a social call the morning after the dinner at Crabb Hall.
During their brief stroll from the garden to the dining hall the night before—of which the finger marks on his arm were a souvenir—Mrs Fawkes had issued an invitation to view her gardens.
Lucian suspected the lady of Hill House had hoped he might call in the evening, preferably when her husband was safely returned to Bristol.
Instead, over a cheroot on the terrace, Lucian had made arrangements with the colonel to visit the following morning.
The Fawkes' estate sat on a gentle slope overlooking the southern edge of the village, right beside the land Silas Hardwick had recently inherited.
Its proximity was, no doubt, what had helped fuel speculation about the rumoured affair.
The house itself, Hill House, was square and proper, rather like the man who owned it.
“Lord Deverell,” Colonel Fawkes greeted him in clipped tones as Lucian’s boots crunched onto the gravel drive. “I admire your punctuality.”
The colonel returned his timepiece to his pocket with a satisfied nod, giving Lucian the curious sensation of knowing precisely how the men under his command must have felt.
Lucian handed his reins over to a footman—standing to military attention—and followed the colonel inside.
“Drink?” Colonel Fawkes queried over his shoulder.
“It’s noon somewhere,” Lucian grinned. If he knew one thing about the military, it was that its cogs and wheels were usually well-oiled with alcohol.
“Very good.”
The colonel had the good grace to laugh as though he hadn’t heard that quip a hundred times before. He waved for Lucian to follow him into his library—all muted tones and leather—where he poured him a generous measure of brandy.
“Chin, chin,” he toasted, as he handed Lucian his glass.
As the two men sipped their drinks, they discussed politics, the French, and matters economic. The colonel, Lucian learned, was soon due to retire and had an interest in purchasing a seat from one of the rotten boroughs.
“Parliament could use a few more men with work ethic,” Colonel Fawkes groused, his moustache quivering with passion. “Men who have had to work to earn their seat, rather than have it handed to them by a quirk of birth. No offence meant, my lord.”
“None taken,” Lucian shrugged his shoulders. From his own experience in The House of Lords, he knew a good chunk of the aristocracy only attended parliamentary sessions for the drinks in White’s afterward.
“So, you’ve an interest in gardening?” the colonel stood abruptly and wandered over to a set of French doors.
Assuming that he had decided their allotted time for chit-chat had now ended, Lucian stood to follow him.
“I enjoy collecting rare species and studying up on the subject of botany,” he answered, in an attempt to make his hobby sound more masculine.
The colonel’s barrel chest, tree-trunk arms, and air of impatience reminded Lucian a little of his long dead grandfather, and he felt a strange need to impress him.
What was it about the inhabitants of Plumpton that made him feel less of an earl?
“It’s an expensive hobby,” the colonel commented, as he opened the doors out to the gardens. “If the rate at which Arabella is burning through money is anything to go by. Though she will argue that she needs something to keep her entertained while I’m away.”
Lucian tried to decipher whether there was bitterness—or any kind of awareness—to the colonel’s tone, but his ears could detect none.
“She’s done a fine job,” Fawkes continued, as he paused to survey the sunken garden before them. “Hardwick sent over some men to level the lawn and build walls, then Mr Leek stuffed it full of flowers.”
“That was kind of Mr Hardwick,” Lucian commented, hoping that the colonel was able to read the subtext to his words. That not many people had a kind word to say about the dead man.
“He didn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart,” the colonel guffawed. “He billed an extortionate amount for the labour. I’d love to find out what he paid the men who did the actual work.”
Lucian tried not to wince; Hardwick had truly been the devil, if he’d both cuckolded and overcharged Colonel Fawkes. Though, perhaps, he thought with a thrill, that meant the colonel had twice the motive they’d first guessed.
“Awful business, still, the murder,” Lucian said, keeping his tone offhand. “I wonder if there’s anyone else around who might have felt cheated by the man?”
The Colonel turned to look Lucian dead in the eye. His blue gaze was so unnervingly assessing, that Lucian felt a momentary stab of pity for whatever Frenchmen had met him on the battle field. He was quite certain none had lived to tell the tale.
“Oh, ho, I know what you’re about,” Fawkes muttered, his moustache twitching.
Dash it. Lucian cursed inwardly—so much for subtlety.
“Mrs Mifford did hint at it,” the colonel added, further confusing him.
As Mrs Mifford was capable of anything—even telling a man he was under suspicion for murder—Lucian waited for the colonel to continue.
“She’s a bonny girl, of course,” Fawkes pressed on.
“Mrs Mifford?” Lucian raised a brow, now utterly perplexed.
“Miss Hughes,” the colonel chortled. “Mrs Mifford hinted that you had formed a tendre for the lass. A lovely girl; gently born, if not the gentry. Not a bad choice for a second wife, from a tactical point of view. Apart, of course, from the business with her father. But that will blow over or be forgotten about. No need for you to take on the yoke of the investigation yourself, my lord.”
“I should like to clear his name,” Lucian replied, his voice firm. He had the sense the colonel appreciated directness.
“I don’t doubt you would,” Fawkes shrugged, “But if you want my opinion, you’d be best to leave matters alone. I’ve no doubt that Mr Hughes killed Mr Hardwick—the time-line of events is clear. People forget these things after a time. Which is all the more reason not to go stirring the pot.”
For the life of him, Lucian could not decipher if the colonel was delivering a veiled threat or was genuinely worried for Mr Hughes. He supposed a man did not rise to a great rank in the armed forces by being easily read. Ambiguity, after all, was a tactical advantage.
“I’ll take your advice into consideration, Colonel,” he replied evenly, attempting for a little ambiguity of his own.
“Good, good,” Fawkes smiled, “And you can cross me off your list if I’m on it. I was visiting with Sir Charles until past midnight.”
“Oh, I didn’t,” Lucian began to protest, but Fawkes cut him off with a wave of his hand.
“I’ve the best aim in the village,” the colonel said proudly. “I’d think less of you if you didn’t suspect me. Though I’d no quarrel with Hardwick, excepting a few overpriced walls—but what cost a dear wife’s happiness, eh?”
Awkwardness descended upon Lucian, as he realised that Colonel Fawkes—for all his admirable strengths—had a decided weak-spot.
“Is Mrs Fawkes at home?” Lucian ventured, for want of anything else to say.
“She is abed, my lord,” the colonel sighed. “She’s had an earache these past few days. She could not make it to Sir Charles’ gathering but felt well enough to visit Crabb Hall last night. Alas, it seems to have set her recovery back a day.”
“A pity,” Lucian condoled. “I find an onion poultice usually works.”
“I’m partial to a spiritual cure myself but that’s the army—there’s no ailment that a good dram of whiskey can’t fix.”
Unable to argue with that logic, Lucian followed the colonel through the sunken garden on what was now—they both knew—a cursory tour.
The sunken garden was neat and symmetrical, its beds bordered with brick and planted in tidy rows.
Amid the usual roses and lavender, Lucian noted a few rarer specimens—blue monkshood, a Japanese anemone—that bore the unmistakable stamp of Mr Leek’s influence.
“It would hold its own against those in the Royal Pavilion,” Lucian commented, as the tour reached its end.
“I’d say it cost just as much,” the colonel grumbled.
He led Lucian back through the French doors and through the library to the entrance hall. There, he ordered the footman—again, standing to attention as though expecting the French to arrive at any minute—to fetch Lucian’s steed.
“If I didn’t have to return to Bristol, I’d try wangle an invite to go shooting on the Northcott estate,” Fawkes said without a hint of guile.
“You’re always welcome in Abergavenny,” Lucian offered, surprised to realise he actually meant it.
He felt he could grow fond of the colonel’s directness; it was oddly refreshing.
“Very decent of you; if one can call an invitation to visit Wales decent.”
The colonel gave a guffaw at his own joke, and Lucian tamped down his appreciation of the man’s directness.
“I’ll bring Arabella along,” Fawkes suggested quickly, sensing he had dented Welsh pride. “Between the pair of us there won’t be a sheep left grazing on the Brecon Beacons .”
“Does Mrs Fawkes hunt?” Lucian queried, struggling to keep his expression impassive. Mrs Fawkes had remained at Hill House on the night of the murder—was it possible it was she who had shot Hardwick in a jealous rage and not her beleaguered husband?
“That’s what attracted me to her first,” Fawkes confessed, his eyes wistful. “Nothing more attractive than a woman who knows her way around a rifle, eh Ashford?”
“Indeed,” Lucian agreed, though inwardly he wondered if it was a peculiar enthusiasm found only among men in uniform.
After a few more words of polite chit-chat—but not too many, for the colonel tended toward brevity—Lucian mounted his steed and set off down the long gravel drive.
He had much to ponder on his journey back to Northcott Manor, though his mind preferred to mull over Miss Hughes rather than murder suspects.
The feel of her arm nestled against him and the gentle caress of her hand on his forearm negated—somewhat—the lingering pain on his other arm, where Mrs Fawkes had left her mark.
Even better, the memory of Sarah’s blushes—how they had stained not only her cheeks, but her generous décolletage—warmed Lucian to his very marrow.
He was falling hard for Miss Hughes and if her reaction to his teasing and flirtation was anything to go by, she did not overly object to the idea of him.
Lucian was certain that with a bit more persistence—and perhaps some help from Mrs Mifford—he’d soon know for sure if Miss Hughes might consent to his advances.
As he navigated the winding road that led back to Northcott Manor, a canopy of leaves overhead, Lucian smiled to himself. How ironic that the woman who had sent him jumping into a hedgerow in terror was now his ally in his campaign to woo Miss Hughes.
Sarah, Lucian corrected himself. And then smiled again.
As he rounded the next curve in the road, he realised he was close to Long Acres. His eyes were naturally drawn to the hedge—thick, tall, and as officiously neat as the man who owned the land behind it.
He slowed Brambles to a canter to inspect the fine trimming. Just because Mr Leek was on the suspect list didn’t mean Lucian couldn’t appreciate a bit of superior topiary work. The lines were crisp, the shaping precise. Murder aside, the man was an artist with shears.
From beyond the hedge, a loud shout went up, startling Lucian.
“Mr Leek, the crows are back!”
The voice belonged to Mrs Vickery and from her tone, Lucian guessed that a corvid was about to meet its bloody end.
“Fetch the gun.”
This voice belonged to Mr Leek and was followed by the loud explosion of a volley of shots. Panicked that he might end up with a bullet in his person, Lucian leaned low against Bramble and urged the horse on.
The residents of Plumpton certainly showed great deference to firearms, if not earls. Lucian felt increasingly certain that amongst the gun-toting villagers they would find the true culprit of the murder. And what better way to win Miss Hughes' favour than by proving her father’s innocence?