Chapter Ten
IT HAD BEEN the Duchess of Northcott who’d first suggested a day trip to Rosemount Manor to view the gardens there but, by the time the party was gathered in the carriage, Mrs Mifford had already taken credit for the idea.
“The gardens are said to be magnificent,” she called over to Lucian, who was contentedly squashed beside Sarah.
“The estate was purchased by a cloth-merchant some years ago and he has poured a fortune into restoring the gardens to their former glory. Which, I suppose, does help dull the whiff of industry that now lingers about the place.”
“Don’t be so snobbish, Mama,” Emily, Lady Chambers scolded.
Mrs Mifford looked to have taken great offence to this comment but everyone was saved an argument as George, holder of the courtesy title Marquess of Thackaberry, gave a howl of annoyance from his seat on the floor, loud enough to wake the dead.
“Oh, I am sorry,” Mary apologised to them all. “I’m afraid the jolting of the carriage is upsetting him. He’s incredibly delicate.”
Lucian held back a snort of amusement; George was about as delicate as a cannonball. Sturdy as a cart horse and equipped with lungs to rival an opera singer, the only thing delicate about George was everyone’s nerves in his company.
“Come here, my lad,” Lucian said, bending forward to sweep George up upon his knee. He gave the young toddler a stern glance, turned him in the direction of the window, then pointed outside.
“Sheep,” Lucian said simply, pointing to the white dots on the rolling hills.
“Ship,” George echoed in agreement, then stuffed a chubby hand in his mouth.
Silence descended as George was transfixed by the passing scenery and everyone in the carriage breathed a sigh of relief.
“He’s very taken by you, my lord,” Mrs Mifford observed, her face aglow with admiration.
“And I by him,” Lucian replied smoothly—though he suspected his valet might be less charmed by the smear of toddler dribble now glistening on the shoulder of his fine wool coat.
“They are excessively endearing at this age,” Lucian continued, directing his comment to the duchess who looked nervous. His subtle reminder that he too was a parent—and as such, a relatively safe pair of hands—relaxed her and she smiled.
“I believe Mother Nature made them look sweet so we wouldn’t be tempted to throw them out the window when they start wailing,” Lady Chambers commented, earning herself a look of horror from her sister.
“There was many a day I wished a buzzard would swoop down and steal one of you,” Mrs Mifford agreed, then her expression went wistful. “But, oh, I do sometimes miss those days. They grow up so quickly.”
Lucian felt a flicker of wistfulness himself, thinking of Rowan at George’s age—sturdy, rambunctious, and endlessly affectionate.
He had been so small, so trusting, so entirely convinced that his father hung the moon.
Lucian had often been humbled by the terrifying yet glorious knowledge that he was his son’s whole world.
He glanced sideways at Miss Hughes. She had said nothing during the exchange, but a faint smile touched her mouth and something soft and sad lingered in her eyes.
For the first time in years, Lucian felt a vague stirring of paternal sentiment. He had, of course, indulged in several daydreams involving himself and Miss Hughes in circumstances likely to result in offspring. He was only a man, after all.
But now, the fantasy took on a different shape: not lust, but longing. A strange, quiet ache to share with her the joy of being—if only for a short while—someone’s whole world. She would make a wonderful mother, Lucian decided, and a wonderful wife.
“I am glad that I decided on this jaunt to Rosemount,” Mrs Mifford declared loudly, her eyes knowing as she looked at Lucian.
The woman was, Lucian was forced to admit, the most gifted of matchmakers.
The party spent another half-hour ensconced in the carriage before they arrived at Rosemount.
They were each stiff despite the well-sprung vehicle, apart from Baby George, who toddled off immediately in the direction of the fountain—at the centre of which stood a cherub, ostensibly urinating water into the pool below.
“George!” the duchess called in despair, hiking up her skirts to race after him.
Mrs Mifford very pointedly took Lady Chambers’ arm, leaving Lucian to gallantly offer his own to Miss Hughes.
“She’s quite the tactician,” Miss Hughes observed wryly. “If only she knew the truth of what we were thinking.”
Lucian, who had just been indulging in another rather indecorous daydream involving creating offspring with Miss Hughes, awkwardly cleared his throat. He was very glad at that moment that Mrs Mifford could not read his thoughts.
A liveried servant emerged from the house to greet them, visibly blanching when he realised the company included several members of the aristocracy.
“Mr Rowley will be most displeased to have missed you,” he stammered. “If only you had written ahead.”
“I’m afraid I only act on impulse, my good man,” Mrs Mifford replied, causing the poor fellow to pale further.
“In that case, I shall fetch the head gardener to conduct your tour,” the servant said, bowing. “He is quite protective of his blooms.”
With one last anxious glance at Mrs Mifford—as though fearful she might act on another impulse and raze the parterre—he turned and scurried away.
A few moments later he returned with the head gardener, Mr Dimblade, who reluctantly removed his straw hat as he greeted the ladies.
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the formal gardens,” he said gruffly, before frowning down at George. “Keep an eye on him; Mrs Rowley likes to let the peacocks wander and they’re liable to charge if they think someone’s invading their space.”
Mary paled, reached down to scoop George up into her arms and declared that they would both stay and play by the fountain. Mrs Mifford, meanwhile, had latched herself onto Mr Dimblade—and Lady Chambers along with her—and was racing ahead at speed.
This left Lucian to amble contentedly beside Sarah, as they both admired Rosemount’s famed roses.
“These smell divine,” Miss Hughes commented, as she leaned over to sniff a particularly vibrant bloom.
“Cabbage roses,” Lucian replied, as he paused beside her. “They bloom only once per season but they make up for it with their perfume.”
“Did your wife like roses?” she ventured, turning to look up at him.
“Every woman does,” Lucian laughed, though he sensed—and understood—that her curiosity about his late wife could not be glossed over with a quip.
“Yes, Caroline did,” he continued, allowing himself a small smile as he reminisced. “Though she was not a very avid gardener. I think she’d be amused at what a a dreadful flower bore I’ve become.”
“Was it love at first sight?” Miss Hughes asked, rendering Lucian slightly amused at her wish to hear of romance. Minerva Press had much to answer for, filling young women’s heads with sentimental expectations of men—Lucian knew a few too many who still resisted their daily bath.
“Not at first sight, no,” Lucian was honest; their marriage had been—as most of their class—arranged out of a mix of finance, duty, and lineage. “But love grew. We gave it the right conditions, we nurtured it daily, and we never took for granted that it needed our dedication to flourish.”
“And you miss her?” Sarah prompted, her eyes tellingly misty.
“Yes,” Lucian confirmed again, “Though I am blessed that I see her every day in Rowan. And he is blessed that he takes after her and not me in the looks department.”
This comment was met with an amused silence from Miss Hughes.
“I believe you are fishing, my lord,” she said, tearing her gaze from his to search for the rest of their party. Spotting them ahead, she took off, and Lucian fell into step beside her.
“I was not,” he replied with a grin. “But if you do believe me fishing, I can only conclude that you must also believe me handsome—otherwise what would be the point of the attempt?”
“You’re insufferable, my lord,” she laughed, her blue eyes dancing.
“At least I’m handsome with it,” Lucian shrugged, earning himself another exasperated glance from his companion.
As they neared the trio of Mrs Mifford, Mr Dimblade, and Lady Chambers, they again slowed their pace.
While it was good to be in sight of the party—to avoid any scandal—Lucian did not particularly wish to join them.
Especially as, from what he could discern, Mrs Mifford now appeared to be lecturing the head-gardener, rather than the other way around.
“I called into Hill House to try get a feel for Colonel Fawkes,” he informed Sarah, gratified that she looked impressed by his efforts.
“And?” she whispered on an excited exhale.
“He has a pretty solid alibi for the night of the murder,” Lucian said, continuing on quickly as Sarah’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. “But Mrs Fawkes remained at home that night and, from her husband’s account, she’s quite comfortable with a shot gun.”
“Do you think she could have killed Mr Hardwick?” Sarah questioned, her mouth a perfect “o” of surprise.
“Passion is always a motive for murder,” Lucian advised, a touch too-knowingly.
“As you learned in The Bloody Register,” Miss Hughes teased.
“You’ll never let me live that down,” Lucian sighed, though inwardly he was delighted to say aloud the idea that their acquaintance held the possibility of continuing on forever.
“Did you learn anything about Mrs Bridges?” he queried, startled by her slight frown of response to his question.
He listened patiently as Sarah haltingly relayed her exchange with Flora Bridges, before finishing with her abject guilt at the idea she might bring trouble to Mrs Bridges’ door.
“It could be nothing,” he assured her, though disquiet stirred his soul. If Hardwick had been harassing the elderly woman, it was entirely possible that fear had driven her to extremes—especially if she was losing some of her faculties.
“We’ll endeavour to learn what it was the pair argued over,” Lucian continued, desperate to ease the anxiety that troubled Miss Hughes’ eyes. “Once we know that, I’m certain it will exonerate her.”
Though they had kept their pace slow, they at last caught up with Mr Dimblade and his charges. Mrs Mifford was lecturing the terrified gardener on how one best tackles greenfly—soap suds in water—while Mr Dimblade listened, eyes glazed.
“Help me,” Lady Chambers mouthed, as she scurried over to the pair. As she reached them, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“What have you two been whispering about all this time?” she queried, hands on hips.
“Nothing,” Sarah said at the exact same moment Lucian replied; “Gardening.”
Lady Chambers was not to be fooled. She glanced from Sarah to Lucian, assessing them suspiciously.
“You’re investigating Mr Hardwick’s murder,” she guessed, glancing from one to the other to see who would break fist.
Miss Hughes blushed prettily, thus giving the game away.
“Oh, how exciting!” the marchioness exclaimed, as her hand unconsciously went to her bump. “If my mind hadn’t turned to mush of late, I might have been able to help. Oh, but I’m sure Ivo will be glad to share all that he has learned.”
As magistrate of Plumpton, Lord Crabb was tasked with upholding the law. Lucian felt something of a dolt, to have not thought to reach out to the viscount sooner. Of course the man had already carried out his own enquiries into Hardwick’s murder.
“A capital idea, my lady,” Lucian glanced at Sarah, to make certain she approved. She gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head.
“Thank you, Lord Deverell,” Lady Chambers beamed, “I can’t say that I’ve had many of them lately. My mind has gone the way of my ankles and vanished altogether. Come, let us rescue poor Mr Dimblade.”
She led Lucian and Sarah back to where Mrs Mifford stood with the gardener, sharing her remedy for blackspot—“cut off every leaf and burn it mercilessly”.
Lady Chambers managed to persuade her mama to call a halt to her lecture series, with the promise of lunch in a coaching-inn.
“Thank you, Mr Dimblade,” Mrs Mifford called graciously, as she allowed her daughter lead her away. “It has been riveting.”
“If you say so,” Lucian overheard the gardener mumble in response, as he scratched his head in confusion.
The quartet returned back down the gravel paths on which the had first come, Mrs Mifford still harking on about her many cures for blackspot.
“You must share them with Mrs Canards,” Miss Hughes interjected with a laugh. “Mrs Vickery gave her a dressing-down yesterday over the state of her bushes.”
“Mrs Vickery does like to affect airs and graces,” Mrs Mifford rolled her eyes, finally distracted from her own intelligence.
“She doesn’t seem to like Mrs Canards,” Miss Hughes continued, her brow drawn into a slight frown.
“Well, of course she doesn’t,” Mrs Mifford sniffed, “It was she who told the whole town of her impoverished background. If it wasn’t for Mr Leek, Mrs Vickery would be in the poor house not playing Lady Long Acres.”
“Well, I for one am fond of the woman,” Miss Hughes declared firmly. “Impoverished background or no.”
“Good for you, dear,” Mrs Mifford replied in a distracted air. Her attention had been caught, Lucian realised by Baby George.
The excessively delicate Marquess of Thackaberry was standing proudly on the rim of the fountain, doing a fine impersonation of the urinating cherub at its centre.
As Mrs Mifford and the duchess cried out in dismay and general chaos broke out, Lucian caught Sarah’s eye. In unison, they both smiled, and Lucian decided that this was the best afternoon he had spent in a long time.