Page 3 of A Body, A Baron, and Miss Mifford (Regency Murder and Marriage #4)

WHEN LORD ROBERT Delaney, Baron Bloomsbury, had set off for Plumpton, it was with the intention of seeing Miss Mifford. He had imagined catching her eye over the dinner table in Plumpton Hall or snatching a moment’s alone time on a walk around the grounds.

He had not imagined first seeing her as he journeyed there, emerging from a bush, bonnet charmingly askew, and calling for help.

“Miss Mifford,” Robert cried, tugging the reins of his mount to bring the beast to a halt, “Whatever’s the matter?”

Miss Mifford paused and looked up at him, her expression momentarily confused as she realised who had addressed her.

“I found a body,” she stated, gesticulating wildly to the bush from which she had just emerged, “A dead one.”

“Are you certain?” Robert asked as he dismounted his saddle. He realised too late that his question sounded rather condescending, so he rushed to clarify himself.

“Forgive me,” he said before she could offer the retort she so obviously wished to voice, “I am merely shocked; I think I meant to say, can you please repeat yourself?”

Miss Mifford sighed impatiently before repeating what she had first told him.

“I found a body, a dead one,” she said, speaking slowly, as though to a child, “On the path which leads down to the river walk. Come see.”

She took off quickly, disappearing back into the bushes, leaving Robert with little option but to follow.

You did want some alone time with the girl, he thought wryly as he pushed his way through the thorny briars.

“There he is,” Miss Mifford whispered, pointing to the body of what looked to be an elderly gentleman sprawled face-down on the ground.

Robert shivered a little, for it was obvious the chap was dead, until he recalled that, as he was the gentleman in this scenario, he was supposed act somewhat gallantly.

“Do not look, Miss Mifford,” he declared, stepping forward to shield her from the unsightly view. “I shall take care of matters from here.”

To Robert’s surprise, his words of assurance were met with an impatient sigh from his damsel in distress.

“I have already seen him, my lord,” Miss Mifford huffed as she edged past him towards the body. She peered down at the poor man, her upturned nose scrunched in concentration.

“Do you think he died of natural causes?” she queried, turning her warm brown eyes his way.

Robert, who had not thought anything at all about the dead man, gave a shrug. “Hard to tell,” he ventured, “What with him being face down.”

Miss Mifford nodded seriously, as though he had said something terribly clever. Robert felt a vague pang of pride, until his companion spoke again.

“Should we turn him to see?” Miss Mifford asked, sounding deadly serious.

It was all too much for Robert, who decided that she must be suffering from acute shock, for that was the only thing he could think of to explain such an unusual suggestion.

“No, we shall not,” he replied firmly. "We shall fetch the doctor and the constable and allow them to investigate matters. Come, I will take you to the village.”

“We can’t leave him unattended,” Miss Mifford objected, “What if someone else stumbles across him? Or if a badger or a deer decide that he looks like a tasty snack?”

“Badgers are nocturnal,” Robert advised her, “And, as far as I’m aware, deer are not terribly partial to meat.”

“Someone might stumble across him, though,” came the swift rebuttal, “After all, I did. I will stay to stand guard, and you will go fetch the constable, Mr Marrowbone, and Dr Bates. You’ll likely find both in The Ring’O’Bells pub in the village.”

“I am not quite sure that leaving you standing guard over a dead body is the correct etiquette in this scenario,” Robert grumbled, though he already knew from Miss Mifford’s tone that she would not budge.

“ The Mirror of Graces neglected to include a chapter on the correct decorum for when one stumbles across a corpse, so we might be forgiven for our transgression,” Miss Mifford answered, a glint of amusement in her eyes as she referenced the famed book on manners.

“Now go; the sooner you leave, the sooner you return.”

Robert sighed but dutifully complied with her wishes. As a brother of four spirited sisters, he was well aware when he had lost an argument with a lady.

Robert returned to find his stallion, Jupiter, grazing on the hedgerow, completely oblivious to the drama unfolding a few feet away. He mounted the saddle with ease, then took off in the direction of Plumpton at a quick gallop.

The village was typical of most Costwolds’ parishes; occasional honey-bricked cottages with thatched roofs lined his path until he crossed a low, stone bridge to the village proper.

Here, the shops sported mullioned windows which looked out onto the village green, which no doubt hosted farmers’ marts and church fetes.

It was all terribly quaint and pastoral - a village in which any man would be happy to make a life for himself.

Robert continued at a canter until he sighted the sign for the pub. The windows were warm and inviting - so much so that Robert was half-tempted to order a pint while searching for the constable.

Inside the pub, he found several gentlemen seated at the bar nursing tankards of ale. Behind the wooden counter stood a gentleman with an impressive white beard, who eyed Rob warily as he entered.

“Aye?” he called, adding a nod to soften his wary greeting.

“I need the village constable,” Robert said officiously. "I was told that I might find him here.”

“And who might you be?”

This question came from one of the men at the bar, who were all staring at Rob curiously - apart from one gentleman, who slid from his seat and made for the door.

“Lord Delaney, Baron Bloomsbury,” Rob answered, quite cheerfully, “I also have need of the village doctor; a dead body was found upon the Bath Road. I am not yet certain if it is foul play or a mere act of nature.”

“You’ll need the constable, Mr Marrowbone, for that, alright,” the gentleman behind the bar agreed sagely.

“And where might he be found?” Robert answered, trying to keep his growing impatience from his voice. Speed and urgency were sorely lacking in most bucolic backwaters, but it appeared especially so in Plumpton.

“He’s just gone out the door,” came the amused answer, “If you hurry, you’ll catch him before he disappears for the day. I’ll send word to the doctor to find you; where on the road might you be?”

“Just after the church,” Rob answered, tipping his hat in thanks to the proprietor, before haring out the door after the slippery constable.

Luckily for Rob, Mr Marrowbone’s approach to walking was as enthusiastic as his approach to working. He had not gone more than a few steps beyond The Ring, thanks to the leisurely amble of his pace.

“Mr Marrowbone,” Rob called sternly, causing the portly constable to stop and turn.

“I don’t know if you heard me before you disappeared from the pub, but I have urgent need of your services,” he continued, with a frown.

“I heard you, I heard you,” the constable grumbled in response, “I was simply on my way to fetch a nag so as to accompany you to the scene, my lord.”

Robert was no fool, but he did not wish to cause a quarrel - especially as two older ladies had drawn near to eavesdrop - so he simply gave a curt nod.

“Very good,” he said and gestured for Marrowbone to continue.

The feckless constable heaved a sigh and turned in the opposite direction of his previous route.

“She’s down at the green,” he said sheepishly, as Robert raised a brow, “I was taking the longer route to get to her.”

Robert followed Mr Marrowbone down to the village green, where his own stallion was tethered. The two men saddled up and set out at a slow pace - for the constable’s horse could manage only a trot - for the Bath Road.

As they rode, Rob began to fret over Miss Mifford’s welfare. Was she distressed, he wondered, having to stand guard over a corpse all alone? Perhaps he had been foolish to allow her have her way, but if she was in a state of anguish, then his was a shoulder on which she might lean for comfort.

When they eventually arrived on the scene, however, Rob found that Miss Mifford was not at all distressed - instead, she was rooting through the corpse’s pockets.

“Ahem,” he coughed loudly, and she sprang backwards, looking guilty.

Mr Marrowbone, who had been trailing two steps behind, pushed past Rob importantly.

“What’s all this?” he said, taking in the scene, his eyes eventually resting on Miss Mifford.

“A Mifford girl and a dead body, why am I not surprised?” Mr Marrowbone sighed dryly as he caught sight of Eudora standing guard over the corpse. He did not notice, though Robert did, Miss Mifford stuffing something into her pocket.

“I don’t recognise him, Mr Marrowbone,” she replied, most innocently. "As far as I can tell, he’s not one of ours. You have a far greater knowledge of the local populace. Can you place him?”

Mr Marrowbone hunkered down beside the poor deceased man's head and assessed him curiously. How he could tell who the gentleman was from looking only at the back of his head was beyond Rob. After a moment of inspection, however, the constable gave a nod of agreement.

“Not one of ours,” he proclaimed, “Might have taken a wrong turn after wandering out of a pub in a different village and then landed here, face down in a puddle of mud. Poor sod.”

Robert raised a brow, for the constable’s tone was that of a man who had solved his case and considered it closed.

“You’ll make enquiries?” he prompted the constable, “In the surrounding towns and villages?”

“I’ll do my best,” Mr Marrowbone offered, as he heaved his frame back to a stand. “Hark, is that the doctor?”

The briar bushes rustled for a moment, and then the figure of Dr Bates emerged. He was an older gentleman, who might have looked distinguished were it not for the crumbs which coated his thick moustache.