Jane and the Stillroom Maid by Barron Stephanie

Author:Barron, Stephanie [Barron, Stephanie]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Bantam
Published: 2009-08-25T16:00:00+00:00

“IT IS UNACCOUNTABLE,” I TOLD LORD HAROLD THIS morning, as he sat in the inn’s parlour, one elegantly-clad leg caught in a stream of late-summer sunlight; “in every way, it is unaccountable! What can he mean by confessing to a murder it is impossible he should have committed?”

“Surely you have already found the answer, Jane,” the gentleman replied. “He intends to shield another by taking the burden of guilt upon himself.”

“But whom? Charles Danforth? No one else has been so openly the object of suspicion. Why should George Hemming sacrifice his life for Danforth’s?”

Lord Harold shrugged indolently. His face this morning was less ravaged than it had been; the activity of the past few hours agreed with him. He was not the sort of man to spend many days together in attendance upon a group of females, arranged about a well-clipped lawn. Dissipation was to Lord Harold a kind of disease.

He had ridden early into town to inform me of the outcome of last night’s events. The constabulary from Buxton had arrived post-haste at Penfolds Hall, due to Devonshire’s urgent instruction; and they had been in time to mount guard over the household, and prevent the more egregious damage intended by the hanging party. Charles Danforth had been most eager to ride upon the scoundrels himself, and had been required to be restrained by his brother, when he would have gone in pursuit; but eventually the pleading of Lady Harriot, and the calmer counsel of Lord Harold, had urged caution. Both the Danforths had gratefully accepted the Duke’s offer of aid, and of bedchambers for the duration of the siege.

At about midnight, Michael Tivey had led his men up to the door of the Danforth estate, and demanded to parley with its owner; Charles Danforth must show his face, as a Mason and a murderer, or be burnt in his bed. It was left to the Penfolds steward—a respectable man by the name of Wickham—to admit that the master was from home; and the rage of the assembled drunkards was then unimaginable. Bricks were hurled, and windows smashed; a very valuable vase of Blue John was dashed upon the front steps, and several of the raiding party gained entrance to the house itself, where they commenced to tear at draperies and harry the terrified servants, most of whom had been torn from their beds. The introduction of flaming torches to the interiors might have caused considerable destruction, had Sir James Villiers not arrived.

The Justice came upon the scene, admirably mounted and entirely cool of temper, just as the assembly were in the act of thrusting a rope over the unfortunate Wickham’s head. The rabble intended, Lord Harold told me, to hang the steward from a venerable oak that stood on the verge of the sweep. The Justice fired his gun in the air, however, summoning the constabulary at his rear, and the hanging party were swiftly routed. Several were even now sleeping off the effects of gin and blows in

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