Chapter Six

Chapter Six

As was always the way with a large estate, the reading of Lord Crabb"s will did not actually settle anything, it merely created more matters which required settling.

"I am sure you are tired of traipsing up here every day," Ivo commented to Mr Just, after another afternoon of paperwork and bureaucracy had come to an end.

"Not at all," the solicitor replied mildly, "I am paid by the hour."

"An honest answer," Ivo grinned, reaching for the bottle of brandy which sat between them.

"Well, I don"t want my invoice to come as a complete surprise," Mr Just replied, with a twinkle in his eye, "If you were to take an apoplectic fit at the sight of it, then I would be back where I had just started—trying to muddle through the estate of another dead viscount."

"Except this viscount does not have an heir," Ivo opined, causing Mr Just to wince.

"If you do one thing for me, my lord," the solicitor said, as he shuffled the pile of papers before him, "Try your best not to pass intestate; it"s a devil of a business trying to get the Crown coffers to pay out for any work completed on their behalf."

"Your concern on my behalf is touching, Mr Just," Ivo was dry, though he grinned a little at the solicitor"s honesty.

"My concern lies with the estate," Mr Just replied, "Plumpton Hall and its lands have been in the hands of the Crabb family for centuries; while the late Lord Crabb might have allowed it to fall somewhat into ruin, I can guarantee you that he was twice the landlord the Crown would ever try to be. You have tenants and responsibilities now, my lord, and nothing would ease their minds more than a son to continue the line."

"So, you"re suggesting I wed?" Ivo questioned, an image of Miss Mifford popping instantly into his mind.

"Wed and produce an heir," Mr Just clarified, causing Ivo to blush a little as he imagined attempting the latter with Miss Mifford.

"I have cancelled the tenancy agreement for the house in St James" Square," Mr Just continued, his mind more focused on business matters than Ivo"s own, which was languishing somewhat in the gutter. "And I have written to cancel your lease for the house in Grosvenor Square."

"Very good," Ivo nodded; Lord Crabb—like many elderly aristocrats—had shunned the London season, preferring instead to rent out his residence in town to members of the ton. Now that he was Viscount Plumpton, there was no need for Ivo to continue leasing on Grosvenor Square, when he had a perfectly good town house of his own.

"I also spoke with Sir Charles," Mr Just lowered his voice, a tad unnecessarily, for the door to the library was shut, "He thanked you for your offer to settle some money upon Miss Hughes, but said that it was entirely unnecessary, given that no marriage actually took place."

"He did?" Ivo raised his eyebrows at the revelation, a gesture which Mr Just answered with a shrug.

"He seemed eager to be done with the whole business," Mr Just explained, "Miss Hughes will have a come-out in spring, and he hopes that she will make a good match in town. To settle any money upon her, he believes, might hint that something untoward had taken place."

"Very well," Ivo could not argue with that logic.

"As for Mr Adonis, he was most upset to learn that you would not be pursuing his—ahem—vision for the gardens," Mr Just did not even attempt to hide his contempt for the jumped-up gardener"s artistic notions, "He billed you an outrageous amount for designs and labour, but as he could not produce any drawings or receipts for work carried out, I managed to negotiate him down to a much fairer settlement."

"Oh?"

"Two weeks" work and the bill for his accommodation at The King"s Head Inn," Mr Just clucked with annoyance, "Two weeks" pay is too much, if you ask me. Mr Adonis" greatest talent, I believe, is looking pretty; couple that with having had one or two aristocratic clients, and the ladies quite lose their heads while their husbands lose a chunk of change from their purses."

"I shall not cast any judgement on ladies being taken in by a pretty face, when we men have been doing the same for centuries," Ivo answered, thinking that Mr Adonis would be certain to make a fortune with a certain breed of lady, if he got his foot in the door with the ton.

"True," Mr Judge rolled his eyes, "A fact I can readily attest to, having tended to the estates of the landed gentry these past thirty years. The problem with most men, is that they store their brains in their breeches. Now, there is one final thing I must run past you, my lord."

Mr Just reached into his leather satchel and withdrew a letter, which he passed across the table to Ivo. Ivo recognised the handwriting as belonging to the late Lord Crabb at once, for he had poured over the letter of invitation the viscount had sent him a hundred times since its veracity had been called into question.

"It arrived a day or two after Lord Crabb"s passing," Mr Just commented, as Ivo read through the missive, "Postage to be paid by the recipient—naturally, it has been added to your bill."

"Naturally," Ivo"s lips quirked slightly, though inside his mind was whirling with confusion.

The letter, written in the late Lord Crabb"s distinctive copperplate scrawl, dictated that Mr Harold was to have his full pension restored and offered retirement upon the death of the letter-writer. If Ivo knew Lord Crabb well enough, then there was no way that the viscount had written the letter, and judging from Mr Just"s frown, he was similarly minded.

"Do you think it fraudulent?" Ivo was direct.

"I do," the solicitor answered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, "I received a similar letter, last year, from the viscount, ordering me to pay a lump sum to a groomsmanwho broke his back when he fell through some rotted beams in the stable. Naturally, I questioned Lord Crabb in person before issuing a bank draft, and he claimed to have had no recollection of writing the letter."

A familiar tale, Ivo thought, his mind on the invitation which Lord Crabb had "forgotten" he had sent.

"Personally," Mr Just continued, "While I noted the incident, I was happy to believe that Lord Crabb was losing his memory somewhat—so common, at his age."

"Of course," Ivo nodded.

"But now I am not so certain," Mr Just cleared his throat, "Perhaps there is someone within these walls who has been manipulating things to their advantage?"

"Mr Harold?"

Though Ivo tried, he could not help but allow a note of incredulity into his voice. It was impossible to think that poor, bent-backed Mr Harold had written the missive; even more-so when one considered that Ivo had restored his pension to him on his first day as viscount. He"d had no reason to forge a letter in Lord Crabb"s hand, when the matter had already been resolved to his satisfaction.

"I have met Mr Harold," Mr Just cleared his throat, "And I do not believe he possesses the—ahem—nous to imagine up such a scheme."

"Nor has he high-tailed it to far off lands with a bag of coins," Ivo snorted, "He has taken up residence in one of the cottages on the estate; hardly the move of a criminal genius."

"Perhaps the letter-writer is not seeking personal gain, after all," Mr Just shrugged, "Perhaps they are merely trying to right the wrongs they perceive Lord Crabb committed?"

Ivo nodded in agreement, his mind wandering over just who amongst the staff might be motivated to engage in forgery for no personal reward—and where on earth did his fabricated invitation fit into all this?

"The groomsman?" Ivo questioned, as Mr Just stood and began to pack his papers away.

"I believe he returned to live with his elderly mother," Mr Just could not meet Ivo"s gaze.

"See that he is taken care of," Ivo instructed, and the solicitor"s countenance brightened considerably.

"I shall draw up the paperwork and bring it along tomorrow," he agreed, before bidding Ivo goodbye and setting off for home with his bulging satchel in hand.

As the door shut behind him, Ivo sat back into the ornate fauteuil to consider Mr Just"s newest revelation. Someone amongst his staff was playing tricks-but to what end?

When Ivo had first arrived at Plumpton Hall, he had brought with him but a single valise, for he had believed his stay would last no longer than a week. Since his inception as Viscount Plumpton, Newman had sent to London for the rest of his wardrobe, which had arrived that very morning, just in time for his dinner with the Miffords.

"I am not at all taken with the red, my lord," the valet sighed, as Ivo finished buttoning up a silk waistcoat of deep ruby, "Perhaps you should try the green again? It brings out the colour of your eyes."

"I do not think the Miffords shall refuse to dine with me if my eyes are not shown to their best advantage," Ivo grumbled in return, though he did concede to Newman"s request by removing the offending ruby waistcoat.

His temper was rather frayed, having spent an extra hour at his toilette at the valet"s insistence, yet Ivo was secretly as invested in his appearance as Newman was. He had never felt the urge to peacock for a lady"s benefit before, but tonight he was overcome by a strong urge to do just that. As Newman turned to fetch the green waistcoat, Ivo surreptitiously checked his appearance in the mirror, flexing his biceps so that they bulged against the linen of his shirt.

"Ahem. Here it is, my lord."

Ivo flushed at having been caught preening and took the proffered waistcoat with a scowl.

"Thank you, Newman," he said, as he threw the garment on and began buttoning it, "That will be all."

"Your coat is hanging on the back of the door," the valet replied, his eyes dancing, "And, the green truly does bring out the colour of your eyes, my lord."

Sensing that he was treading on thin ice, Newman dashed from the room, leaving Ivo to finish dressing alone. Once he had donned his coat and straightened his cravat, Ivo gave his appearance one last sweeping glance in the mirror. Newman had washed, scrubbed, and shaved him into a much more presentable version of himself, Ivo thought with a smile. After a decade at sea, Ivo"s grooming standards were far beneath what was expected of the ton. His tolerance for a five o"clock shadow and hair that curled at the collar had necessitated the hiring of Newman, and though the valet"s fussing irked at times, Ivo would be the first to admit that he would be lost without him. Well, perhaps not lost, but definitely hairier.

Downstairs, the staff were racing this way and that, their work overseen by Allen. The butler"s expression was most displeased, as he cast a critical eye around the entrance hall, and it became even more so as he saw Ivo approach.

"My lord," Allen sniffed, "I hope you find everything to your liking."

"Er, yes," Ivo replied, wondering if he was expected to run a gloved finger along the balustrade to check for dust, "All ship-shape here. How do things fare in the kitchen?"

"Mrs Aiken is in somewhat of a panic, given that no one has entertained here for at least three decades, but I am certain that she will triumph. As you had no ideas for the menu, she settled on pheasant."

"Splendid," Ivo answered Allen"s coldness with forced friendliness. The butler, who had been so welcoming on Ivo"s original arrival, had notably cooled since Lord Crabb"s death. If the man believed Ivo a murderer, then Ivo could not really fault him his reserve, though it did rankle.

A call went up to say that the Miffords had been sighted coming up the driveway, relieving Ivo of any further obligation to speak with Allen. He took his place near the front door, ready to greet his guests when they arrived.

Mr Mifford was the first through the door, wearing a congenial smile. He was followed by a small, plump woman—who was introduced as Mrs Mifford—and she in turn was followed by her three daughters.

"Emily, Eudora, and Jane," Mr Mifford listed off their names cheerfully.

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, ladies," Ivo bowed in their direction and as he rose, he caught sight of a faint blush on Miss Mifford"s cheeks.

"My eldest daughter Mary could not come," Mrs Mifford interjected, "She is in London for the little season with her husband, the duke."

Even a deaf man could have heard the emphasis Mrs Mifford placed on the word "duke" and Ivo noticed Miss Mifford wincing with embarrassment behind her mama.

"What a pity, though I am sure our paths will cross in the future," Ivo opined, hastily changing the subject, "Would you care to follow me to the dining room?"

"Lead the way," Mr Mifford agreed, before muttering in an aside barely audible to even Ivo "If she is eating, she won"t be speaking."

The "she" Mr Mifford referred to, Ivo soon discovered, was Mrs Mifford. As the group walked from the entrance hall to the dining room, the vicar"s wife kept up a steady stream of commentary on everything and anything that popped into her head.

"I do like what you have done with the place, my lord," Mrs Mifford offered, as they reached the dining room, "It looks so different to the last time that we called."

"I do not think anything has changed," Ivo replied, with confusion. He had not yet begun to redecorate any of the rooms in the Hall.

"The fire is lit," Eudora, the youngest of the sisters—who was inexplicably dressed like an elderly dowager duchess—commented astutely.

"And the table is set for supper," Emily, Miss Mifford"s other sister, commented dreamily, "Lord Crabb never invited us in to dine, that"s probably why it looks so odd."

"Nonsense, dearest," Mrs Mifford hushed, "Of course Lord Crabb invited us to dine, why would he not, when he was so fond of us all?"

"I really don"t think he was—ouch!"

Miss Emily shot her mother a wounded look, though Mrs Mifford"s gaze was cast innocently upward toward the ceiling, as though she found the wood panelling most interesting.

"Shall we be seated?" Ivo interrupted, as an aggrieved Miss Emily rubbed her shin.

"Good heavens, yes," Mr Mifford agreed, and Ivo waved a hand toward the table.

"I thought an informal setting better than a formal one, given that we are such a small number," Ivo explained, as the six of them took their places at one end of the lengthy dining table. Ivo sat at the head, with Mr Mifford to his left, and Mrs Mifford to his right. Miss Mifford sat beside her father, while her two younger sisters were placed beside their mother.

"I do prefer an informal setting," Mrs Mifford cooed in agreement, "So much more intimate. My Mary prefers the same, when she is dining at Northcott Hall—did I mention my eldest daughter is now a duchess, my lord?"

"I don"t believe you did," Ivo replied innocently, his remark rewarded by a snort of laughter from Miss Mifford, who was forced to cover her face with her napkin to hide her mirth.

Throughout the several courses, the conversational offerings from Mrs Mifford remained much the same. With remarkable skill and determination, she somehow managed to shoe-horn in the fact that her eldest daughter was a duchess into every topic imaginable.

Pheasant for the main course? How remarkable, that"s just what Mary, the duchess, would have chosen.

A leaking roof in the east wing? Mary, the duchess, had encountered a similar issue, just last month.

Seeking to take a case to the Court of Chancery? Why, Mary, the duchess, was well versed on the procedure.

The last one was something of an exaggeration, but it did seem to Ivo that Mrs Mifford was determined to link everything and anything back to her eldest daughter, that is until Ivo casually mentioned that he intended to spend the next season in town.

"In London town?" Mrs Mifford clarified, her eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

At his left side, Ivo heard Mr Mifford utter a pitiful "she"s off" to himself, as his daughter squirmed in her seat beside him.

"As I intend to take up my seat in the House of Commons, it will have to be London," Ivo answered, his words causing great excitement in Mrs Mifford.

"Why," she declared, setting her—third, by Ivo"s count—glass of wine down, "How lovely. Will you be searching for a wife?"

Mrs Mifford, Ivo realised, was not a woman who cared to use charm and subtly to breach enemy lines, preferring instead a direct arrow.

"I will be attending to my parliamentary duties," Ivo was tactful in the face of tactlessness.

Marriage was, of course, on his mind—especially after Mr Just"s earlier warnings that he must soon beget himself an heir. Inwardly, though, he shuddered as he recalled the pitiful creatures he had met earlier this year. They had fawned over him when they thought him rich, who knew how they would act when they found him rich and a viscount? Not to mention that his mind was already occupied with thoughts of a far superior lady, who sat only two seats away. A lady whose eyes were trained steadfastly on the table and had given no hint whatsoever that she returned the affection he felt toward her.

"Jane is to have a season, next spring," Mrs Mifford said, as though Ivo had not spoken, "Her sister, the duchess, will sponsor her. I expect she will have great success in town; she is most accomplished. Perhaps not at the pianoforte, nor watercolours, or needlepoint for that matter, but she sings like a lark and has excellent posture."

"She also stands at five and a half hands and had an excellent showing at her last race at Cocklebarrow," Mr Mifford muttered dryly, more to himself than to Ivo, but he heard him nonetheless.

Miss Mifford—or Jane, as Ivo liked to call her in his head—had frozen in her seat, no doubt mortified by her mother"s rather blatant attempt at marrying her off.

In order to assuage her worry, Ivo lifted his wine glass, and raised it in a toast.

"Your beauty and grace will steal the eye of every London gentleman, Miss Mifford," Ivo offered, causing Miss Mifford to flush prettily and her mother to knock over her wine glass.

Two footmen rushed to clean the mess, removing along with it the empty dinner plates. Dessert was then swiftly served—a variety of biscuits and macaroons for dipping in sweet wine—and conversation returned to the more mundane.

"While it is usually custom for us men-folk to retreat to the library for a cheroot and brandy, I am loath to leave you ladies alone when I have no hostess to care for you," Ivo said, as the servants discreetly took away the empty plates and glasses.

"A man without a wife is a pitiful thing, indeed," Mrs Mifford offered, with a long sigh, "In the absence of tea and conversation, perhaps his lordship would like to take us on a tour of the house?"

Mrs Mifford, Ivo knew, was longing to snoop. Fortunately for Mrs Mifford, Ivo could see that one of the benefits of a tour of the house would be the opportunity to walk alongside Miss Mifford for a while.

"I shall have Allen lead the tour," Ivo said humbly, "He is far more versed in the house"s history than I, and less likely to get us lost along the maze of corridors."

And so, Allen was summoned to lead Ivo and the Miffords on a tour of Plumpton Hall. He began in the entrance hall, where—for fifteen full minutes—he gave a thorough account of the estate"s history—stretching right back to the thirteenth century, when it had begun life as a Bishop"s Palace.

"During the Protestant Reformation, the lands were seized from the church by King Edward the Sixth and when he granted the first Viscount Plumpton his title, he also gifted him these lands," Allen droned, as Ivo"s guests—sleepy from food and wine—listened with glazed eyes.

"The original building was torn down in 1629," Allen continued, "And the third viscount then built a large manor house in the Jacobean style. The fourth viscount extended this in the latter half of that century, adding a porch and a second floor, but the house has remained untouched since."

"Until now," Mrs Mifford opined, flashing a bright smile in Ivo"s direction, "Perhaps his lordship has plans to modernise the place a little?"

Allen, usually so stoic, turned a fascinating shade of red at Mrs Mifford"s words.

"Plumpton Hall is one of the few stately homes in England which has not suffered from being modernised by its current custodians," Allen answered, his emphasis on the word modernised offering a hint of his true feelings.

"I shouldn"t like to change the place too much," Ivo added, to distract Mrs Mifford, who looked faintly insulted, "Perhaps just fix a few things, so the roof does not collapse on us one night. I"m told there is a Long Room, Allen? Would you believe, Mrs Mifford, that I have not yet had a chance to view it, with the masses of paperwork I have had to sort through?"

Mrs Mifford preened at having been singled out for his attention, without realising that his request to see the Long Room was a distraction tactic. It served two purposes; to calm Allen down—for he looked most upset at the notion of Ivo making any changes to Plumpton Hall—and to get Miss Mifford into a room where Ivo might have a moment alone with her.

"I shall have the footmen light the sconces," Allen said, before waving to attract the attention of the two footmen who stood by the front door.

The two young men ran ahead of the group, and by the time Ivo and his guests reached the long room—after a ten minute stop to appreciate an Elizabethan chandelier—they found it bright and welcoming.

"I recall playing here as a girl with my sisters, when my great-uncle was viscount," Mrs Mifford sighed happily, as she gazed around the room.

As hinted by the name, the room was very long, running the entire length of the west-side of the house. One wall was lined with mullioned windows, which looked out onto the gardens, while the opposite wall was filled with portraits of the Crabb family, some dating back centuries.

Allen began to explain the history behind each painting and its subject, though the only guest who remained by his side to listen was Miss Eudora. Mr and Mrs Mifford began a slow promenade, arm in arm, down the length of the room, while Miss Emily wandered over to the windows to peer out at the view.

Miss Mifford, with her arms behind her back, sashayed gently along the row of portraits, coming to a stop before a particularly ugly fellow, wearing the outlandish fashions of the Carolean period, complete with an excess of ruffles, bows, and curls.

"I imagine it took him an age to dress in the morning," she commented idly, as Ivo came to a stop beside her.

"Er, yes," Ivo responded, a little stupidly, for his senses were somewhat overwhelmed at being so close to her. She wore a light, floral scent, which Ivo was certain was the exact scent of the heavens, and her hair, under the candlelight, revealed itself to be so much more than just brown. It was a rich chocolate, shot through with hints of auburn and gold, and so silky looking that for one—admittedly insane—moment, Ivo longed to reach out and stroke it.

"I have some news for you," Miss Mifford whispered, all business, "I have heard that your Mr Allen has been short with some of the staff, and another of your staff, Miss Flora Bridges, is the object of Mr Bennett"s affections."

"Does Flora return his feelings?" Ivo pressed, his heart beating faster with anticipation. Had they found some sort of connection between Mr Bennett and his household?

"No," Miss Mifford pursed her lips, "Though she does make potions and tonics, the old-fashioned way."

"Lud," Ivo exhaled a deep sigh, as his mind conjured up an image of Flora. She was a small girl, bird-like almost, and seemed too timid to have been involved in anything nefarious. Though, perhaps this Mr Bennett had tricked her somehow...

"And what of Mr Allen?" Ivo asked, surreptitiously eyeing the butler from afar. He was certainly a cold-fish, with an obvious dislike for Ivo; it was much easier to picture him as the villain than poor Flora.

"One of your footmen, James, has had a disagreement with him," Miss Mifford answered, turning her brown eyes toward him pleadingly, "Though, I beg you, do not implicate him in anything. He needs his job to support his mother."

An unfamiliar emotion erupted in Ivo"s breast, so foreign that it took him a moment to pin-point just what it was—jealousy. He longed to ask Miss Mifford how she had come across the tale of poor, woe-begotten, strapping and handsome James—a cosy cup of tea and sympathy?—but somehow managed to restrain himself.

"His sister, Nora, is our maid," Miss Mifford continued, and Ivo"s shoulders sagged with relief, "She would never forgive me if I was somehow involved in him being dismissed."

"Rest assured, Miss Mifford," Ivo answered smoothly, "That shall not happen on my watch."

She smiled at him, a shy, trusting smile which tugged at Ivo"s heart-strings, and he longed to tell her how beautiful she looked at that moment; bathed by candle-light and goodness.

His flowery words were not to be uttered, however, for they were quickly interrupted by Mr and Mrs Mifford, on their return journey from the end of the room.

"Don"t you two look cosy?" Mrs Mifford twittered, her all-seeing eyes alight with pleasure, "My lord, I must ask you, what has happened to all the paintings? I count at least a dozen missing."

"I am the wrong person to question about that," Ivo answered, raising his eyebrows in surprise, "Mr Allen, can you shed any light on this matter?"

Allen, who had been explaining the history of another of the Crabb family tree"s less fortunate looking members to an enraptured Miss Eudora, turned at the sound of his name.

"What"s that, my lord?"

"Mrs Mifford believes that there are at least a dozen paintings missing," Ivo said, as the butler turned a funny shade of pink, "Do you have any idea where they might be?"

"Miss Hughes," Allen uttered the name as thought it was a vulgarism, "Had several portraits removed. She was not at all taken with the fifth or the sixth viscountesses—"

"Lazy eyes," Mrs Mifford interjected knowingly.

"—and she had plans to turn the Long Room into a Print Room, similar to the one she had seen in Kettle House, in Bath."

"A print room?" Ivo queried, imagining a museum-like setting with rare prints displayed in glass cabinets.

"They"re very popular with young ladies," Miss Emily helpfully enlightened him, "One collects prints, usually of a similar theme, and pastes them to the wall."

"Miss Hughes" theme was to be kittens," Mr Allen verified, with a wince of pain at the memory of such horror.

"How sweet," Mrs Mifford pronounced, "Kittens would be far preferable to the stuffy old gargoyles displayed here."

As Allen looked to be on the verge of an apoplectic fit—and Ivo did not blame him, for the thought of a room covered in kittens was horrifying—Ivo swiftly moved the conversation on.

"Try and find them, if you can, Allen," he bid the butler, who nodded silently in reply.

Mr Mifford, sensing that his wife was on the verge of wearing out their collective welcome, clapped his hands together brusquely.

"Well," he said, with a smile to Ivo, "On behalf of my family, I would like to thank you for a most hospitable evening, my lord."

"I hope that we may do it again soon," Ivo agreed, his eyes slipping to Jane to let her know that it was she to whom he was really speaking to.

The group returned to the entrance hall, where two footmen rushed forward with the Miffords coats and shawls. In a chorus of goodbyes and well wishes, the family then took their leave. As Ivo waved them off from the top step, he felt a strange pang of loneliness watching their gig pull slowly down the drive.

Despite Mrs Mifford"s gaff-prone tongue, Ivo had thoroughly enjoyed being part of a family for an evening. And it had been delightful too to have Plumpton Hall filled with the sound of chatter and laughter.

As Ivo turned to return inside, a vision danced across his mind"s eye; he and Miss Mifford standing together on the top step, waving her family goodbye after a cosy supper.

Of course, he thought to himself, for that vision to become a reality, Ivo would have to change one thing—he would have to make Miss Mifford his viscountess. A very appealing idea, indeed.