Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

Ivo was in a bear of a mood.

As he had awoken that morning, he"d enjoyed a split second of peace before recalling the events of the previous night. Or, rather, the disaster of the previous night.

His dance with Miss Mifford had been exquisite. His declaration that he wished for a second dance with her had been well received by her parents—and, judging from Mrs Mifford"s smile, had been understood as he had intended.

All had seemed perfect, until nature had called.

A quiet word in Mr Marrowbone"s ear had revealed that the facilities for men in the assembly rooms were identical to those in The Ring"O"Bells below—namely, the side alley. As a sailor, Ivo was well accustomed to rough standards, and had not been at all perturbed to be sent in that direction.

He had brushed off Mr Marrowbone"s offer to accompany him downstairs—for what fellow wished to be accompanied on such a mission?—though he soon regretted that decision.

Having finished his task, Ivo had emerged from the alleyway to hear a voice calling his name—a female voice.

He had glanced up to find Miss Hughes, her face a picture of anguish, calling out to him and beckoning him over to her. Worried that she had come to some harm, Ivo had hurried across to her and followed her around the side of a carriage, only for her to pounce—there was no other word for it—on him.

She had thrown her arms around him and drawn him to her, in the expectation that he would kiss her. For a moment, Ivo had been too stunned to react, though shortly he had begun the delicate task of attempting to extricate himself from Prunella"s grip—and what a grip she had!

She had clung onto him as tightly as a limpet to the hull of a ship; Ivo—who had been reluctant to use force with the silly chit—had pulled away as best he could.

"Really, Miss Hughes," he had pleaded, "This is most inappropriate."

Prunella had not listened, and a few moments more of—highly uncomfortable—struggling had ensued. Ivo finally lost patience with the girl and was about to throw her off, when a movement had caught his eye.

"Miss Mifford," Ivo had croaked, as Jane stood stock-still, watching them.

"Forgive me," she had squeaked in reply, her face ashen. "I was simply helping Miss Hughes search for her cousin. I see you have found her. Jolly good, as you were."

Miss Mifford had darted off and, mercifully, her brief interruption had startled Prunella into loosening her vice-like grip on Ivo.

"Really, Miss Hughes, that is enough. Return inside at once, lest anyone sights us together."

Thankfully, Prunella had complied, and had fled from him without a backwards glance. Ivo had waited behind the carriage for a few moments to allow Prunella return to the dance, before he himself had set forth, hoping to find Miss Mifford so that he could explain himself.

Miss Mifford, however, had disappeared. Ivo had not been able to find her in the assembly rooms, and after a half an hour of fruitless searching, her sister—the youngest one, Eudora—had informed him that Miss Mifford had left.

"She had a sudden migraine," Eudora had said, peering at him from over her spectacles, "Which is most strange, for she doesn"t usually suffer them."

Miss Mifford"s sudden migraine had persisted through the night and into the next morning, for she had not been present at Sunday Service.

Once Mr Mifford had finished his sermon—a succinct meditation on resting on the seventh day—the villagers had stood to leave. Ivo dawdled as the church emptied, his eyes focusing on the ornate engraving of the Crabb Pew, which was located at the very top of the small church.

When he was certain that nearly everyone had left, Ivo picked up his hat and made his way down the aisle of the church to the door.

"A lovely sermon, Mr Mifford," he said to the vicar, who was standing outside to see his parishioners off, "Most concise."

"I am a great believer in Matthew 12:36," Mr Mifford replied, innocently, "On the day of judgement people will give account for every careless word they speak—and what could be more careless than a vicar parroting on and delaying everyone"s Sunday luncheon?"

"How true," Ivo smiled.

The men were interrupted by the appearance of Mrs Mifford, who had been waiting for her husband at the gate, alongside Miss Emily and Miss Eudora.

"My lord," she cooed, "How lovely to see you. Alas, Jane is still suffering from a migraine and could not attend. She is so very sorry that she could not stay last night and have that second dance with you."

Poor Mrs Mifford had no idea that Ivo was well aware that she was putting words in her daughter"s mouth. Still, he smiled graciously and gave a shrug.

"Another time," he answered, his tone more determined than he had intended, "Please tell Miss Mifford that I enquired after her."

"I shall," Mrs Mifford beamed with delight, "Do call for tea, if you are passing. Anytime at all, day or night, you are most welcome."

Ivo did not doubt that Mrs Mifford would throw open the door to him if he attempted to call at midnight, but it was not her welcome he was doubtful of.

"Thank you," Ivo answered, "I shall endeavour to call at a reasonable hour. Good day to you all."

With that, he donned his hat, made his way down the path and through the gate—with a quick hello to the Misses Mifford—to where his steed was tethered. Ivo mounted his ride and took off for Plumpton Hall at a brisk trot, anxiety at Miss Mifford"s absence making him irritable.

He could not blame her for wishing to avoid him, not one jot, but he did hope that some day she might allow him to explain what had happened. Not that he was entirely certain of what had transpired—and why—himself.

Prunella had never given any inclination that she liked him—rather the opposite, in fact. It was difficult to believe that she had been secretly harbouring feelings for him all this time, though Ivo did not know what else to think. It was possible that she was so determined to be a viscountess that she had thrown herself at him in the hope that he would compromise her and be forced to offer for her hand, but Ivo did not wish to believe that any lady would act in such a manner.

Ivo arrived at Plumpton Hall perplexed, annoyed, and anxious. He was filled with a restless energy which needed to be diverted somewhere. As he cantered up the drive, he caught sight of Allen peering out at him again from one of the windows on the top floor, and he suddenly knew where he wished to expend all his fire.

Once he had returned his horse to the stables, Ivo stormed into the house, his footsteps drawing the attention of Mrs Hardbottle.

"What have I told you boys about clomping on my clean tiles with your mucky boots?" she grumbled, as she emerged from the kitchen.

"Oh, my lord," she stuttered, as she realised that it was Ivo and not an unruly footman she was addressing, "I do apologise."

"No need to apologise," Ivo answered, "I am more than grateful for your passioned defence of my tiles. Tell me, Mrs Hardbottle, where might I find Mr Allen?"

"In his office, I suspect," the housekeeper replied, "And if he"s not in his office, he"ll be in his drawing room beside that. Shall I have one of the footmen fetch him?"

"No need," Ivo shook his head—he wanted to confront Allen unawares, "Just point me in the right direction."

And so, Ivo soon found himself outside the door of Mr Allen"s office, in the dark east-wing of the house.

"My lord," the butler"s expression did not change one iota, as he answered the door to Ivo"s knock, "What can I do for you?"

Allen ushered Ivo inside to a small, painfully neat, room. Its contents consisted of an old table, with a chair in front of it—in which, no doubt, many an errant staff member had been upbraided—and a standing set of drawers. There was no drinks cabinet, so the butler did not offer him a drink, but he did ask if he would like to take a seat.

"No," Ivo replied brusquely, before adding a reluctant, "Thank you."

"Is it something urgent?" Allen pressed, picking up on Ivo"s agitation.

"Yes," Ivo gave him a cool look, "As a matter of fact, it is. I wish to know why you murdered Lord Crabb?"

Ivo rarely saw well-worn sayings come to life, but one could have knocked Allen over with a feather, such was his shock.

"Why did I murder him?" the butler hissed angrily, as he finally found his voice, "It was you who murdered Lord Crabb; do not try and pin the blame on me."

"You hold the key for the still room," Ivo countered, nonplussed by his accusation, "You knew that Lord Crabb took that tonic every night before bed—it would have been simple for you to slip something into it. Moreover, you were heard arguing with Lord Crabb in the days before he died, no doubt about the missing paintings—which I am certain you sold for profit."

Mr Allen was speechless, which did not augur well for Ivo"s hopes that he would be shocked into a confession. Determined to have the truth, Ivo continued on.

"Not only that," he said, "Lord Crabb was heard to say that he wanted to cut you off from your pension. On the night that he died, you were supposed to ask Mr Just to stay so that he could finalise it in his will, but you pretended you forgot. You only had one night to act, so you stole into the still room and slipped some nightshade into his tonic."

"I did no such thing," Mr Allen refuted, his face purple with rage, "His lordship was not going to write me out of his will, he was going to write Miss Hughes into it. Did you know that the house is not entailed? The lands of the estate are but the house itself is not. Lord Crabb was determined to leave it to Miss Hughes, he wanted her to remain in the Hall for as long as she wished, and I could not stand by and watch her paper the drawing room with kittens."

"So you killed Lord Crabb," Ivo prompted, holding his breath as he waited for an answer.

"No," Mr Allen was belligerent, "I simply pretended to forget and I intended to keep forgetting, until Lord Crabb himself forgot his foolish plan—his memory was not what it once was, you know."

"Then why did you kill him?" Ivo refused to be distracted by tangents.

The butler sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes near popping from his head.

"I did not kill him," he cried, wild with anger, "You did! Do you know how much I regret writing to you? I thought your arrival would halt Lord Crabb"s foolish mission to beget an heir and marry that silly chit. I thought you would save him from ruining the ancestral home, but you killed him. You fiend, you killed him."

Ivo did not have much time to dwell on the revelation that it was Allen who had forged the letter from Lord Crabb, for the butler dissolved into floods of un-butler-like tears before him. Anguished sobs filled the room, akin to that of a wounded animal. Grief was something Ivo knew and understood, and the depth of grief that Mr Allen felt at Lord Crabb"s death appeared genuine—though there was always the possibility that the old man was acting.

"What did you fight over, eh?" Ivo prompted, his tone much softer than before. "The missing paintings? Did you secret them away and sell them for a profit?"

Mr Allen stilled at Ivo"s words, his posture returning to its usual rigid form. He drew himself up to his full height and glanced at Ivo with utter contempt.

"You, my lord," Allen said, pompously, "Are a philistine. Follow me."

Allen turned and made his way through a doorway on the far side of the room, with Ivo following, hot on his heels. The room was, Ivo guessed, the butler"s drawing room. It was decorated in dark, masculine colours, with a few tasteful pieces of furniture dotted here and there.

And upon the walls?

"The Fifth Viscountess Plumpton," Allen said reverently, pointing at the largest of the portraits, surrounded by a gilded frame, "Commissioned by her husband just after their marriage. Beside her, you see the Sixth Viscountess and to her right, their offspring. On the other wall, you can see some members of the minor branches of the family; General Crabb is my particular favourite. He was killed at Pembroke Castle during the Second Civil War when an explosive device he had set in an attempt to breach the walls went off too soon."

"Hoist by his own petard," Ivo commented.

"Yes," Allen looked pleased, "Quite literally."

"I don"t understand why you"re showing me these," Ivo continued, as the butler gazed up at the portraits, "You have merely proved to me that you did steal the paintings."

"I did not steal them," Allen twirled around to face him, "I saved them. I have worked in Plumpton Hall my entire life, my lord. You are the fourth viscount that I have served, and it is my fervent hope that I shall die in service to the line. I am showing you these so you understand that my first loyalty is to the Crabb family and preserving the history and traditions of this house. I will not stand by and allow you to accuse me of murdering a man I loved as much as a brother."

Ivo remained silent as he assessed the butler; his tufts of white hair, his angular nose, even the way he held himself was reminiscent of the late Lord Crabb.

"You are the fifth viscount"s baseborn son?" he guessed, and the butler heaved an irritated sigh.

"Of course I am," Allen rolled his eyes, "Everyone knows it; it"s quite the open secret around here."

"Forgive me for not knowing all of Plumpton"s secrets," Ivo was droll, "I have only recently arrived, you see."

"Yes, well," the butler grumbled, "You can ask anyone—Mrs Hardbottle might be best, she"s been here nearly as long as I have. My mother was a milkmaid. When the fifth viscount put her in the family way, he insisted that one of the groomsmen marry her so that my birth might not be such a shame to her. He never officially recognised me, of course, but he was fond of me. He taught me the history of the family, taught me how to respect and treasure the Crabb name. When I was of an age, he set me working in the house, quite the step up for a lad of my muddied origins."

"Quite," Ivo agreed, "And was the late Lord Crabb aware of your shared parentage?"

"He was," Allen nodded, "Within these four walls I was his friend, his confidant, and the man he trusted above all others. I was the only one to call him out when his behaviour did not meet the standards expected of his title."

"Such as marrying Miss Hughes?"

"That and trying to remedy the messes he made when his pettiness got the better of him," Allen sighed, "It was easier in the latter years; I could impersonate his hand well enough and his memory was easily tricked."

"It was you who wrote the letter seeking payment for the groomsman who broke his back," Ivo guessed, "And the letter which arrived after Lord Crabb"s death, asking for Mr Harold to have his pension reinstated."

"Yes," Allen gave a solemn nod, "And I suppose you disapprove and think it grounds for dismissal, but I cannot regret it."

"As a matter of fact," Ivo shrugged, "I think it was very kind of you to risk your position for another. You should be commended for it, Allen—though any attempts at forging my signature will not be met with similar sentiments."

"Yes, my lord," the butler hesitated, "Am I to take it that you are not dismissing me?"

"I am not," Ivo confirmed.

"And you do not believe that I engaged in fratricide?"

"I do not," Ivo sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat, "Though it would be much easier for me if you were guilty, Allen. With you removed from the equation, I"ve run out of ideas for who the true villain might be."

"The truth always prevails, my lord," Allen offered reassuringly, before glancing nervously at the paintings on the walls, "Shall I have these returned to the Long Room?"

"You hold onto them for now," Ivo said quickly; things were bad enough without having the formidable fifth viscountess staring down at him each day.

As there was little else left to say, Ivo excused himself from Allen"s drawing room, his mind trying to make sense of what the butler had told him.

He longed to discuss his news with someone who would care as much as he did, and impulse led him to the stables, where he ordered the groomsman to saddle his horse.

As he cantered along to Primrose Cottage, Ivo debated whether Miss Mifford would receive him. She had every reason to wish to ignore him—or she believed she did, at least—but the news from Allen might tempt her to suffer his presence.

As it turned out, Ivo need not have feared being refused by Miss Mifford—or any of the Miffords for that matter—for when he called the maid answered and informed him that the family were not in.

"Her Grace returned from London, my lord," the dark-haired girl sniffed, "And the family abandoned plans to take dinner here, in favour of a meal at Northcott Manor. Never mind that I spent all morning peeling the vegetables."

The last bit was muttered as an aside, though loud enough for Ivo to hear. He did not at all know how to respond to her, so he simply made a vague, sympathetic noise.

"If you could tell Miss Mifford that I called?" he suggested, and the maid gave a surly nod.

"I shall, my lord," she answered, chewing her lip thoughtfully, "May I speak out of turn..?"

Was she about to reveal something about Jane? Had the eldest Miss Mifford confided to this girl her feelings for Ivo?

Eagerly, Ivo nodded, and the maid took a deep breath before she began to speak.

"Might not be my place, my lord," she said coyly, "But I have heard that your Miss Flora Bridges has a man calling up to her at the house; a Mr Bennett. I"m not suggesting that she"s doing anything improper, but from what I"ve heard, he"s been calling up at night-time."

It was not a shared secret about Miss Mifford, but nevertheless Ivo"s heart began to beat urgently within his chest. Was it possible that Flora was the villain after all? An unlikely suspect, to be sure, but then Ivo"s most likely suspect had proved a bust.

"Are you certain?" he pressed, trying not to sound too excited.

"Yes, my lord," the maid nodded, her cheeks pink, "Flora sells some of her potions in the village to the locals and that"s where he met her. Mr Bennett even called on her on the night of Lord Crabb"s death. They were seen dancing together at the assembly as well, anyone can tell you that."

There was a note of spite to the maid"s voice, but Ivo could not fathom the reason. Still, he did not care for petty squabbles between maids, not when he might at last have found his murderer.