Page 16 of A Murder, a Marquess, and Miss Mifford
Freddie still harboured suspicions about Mr Fitzgibbons. The Runners might not think to question the word of two gentlemen, but Freddie was not as blinded by title and privilege as they. A gentleman's word was not all that, especially when the gentleman had earlier professed a wish to kill the victim--and, when the man offering the alibi was his closest chum. In the absence of any proof, however, there was little that Freddie could do except bide his time and try to figure out a way to prove that Mr Fitzgibbons had killed Lady Hardthistle.
And while he was doingthat, the Duke of Northcott had afforded him a different way into Miss Mifford's affections--as her protector.
Northcott had approached him in White's that afternoon and had explained that Freddie's public support of his sister-in-law would be greatly beneficial in protecting Miss Mifford from society's censure. Freddie had listened politely as the duke had plead his case, though inside he had been desperately fighting against the delighted smile which had tugged valiantly at the corners of his mouth.
"I should be glad to lend Miss Mifford my support," Freddie had replied when Northcott had finished saying his piece, his voice laced with appropriate level of gravitas for his statement.
Both gentlemen agreed that Freddie would begin his quest that evening, at Lady Stanton's ball, and Freddie now stood in front of the mirror in his dressing-chamber, surveying his chosen outfit for the evening. His valet, Farley, hovered anxiously beside him, as Freddie inspected every element of his appearance--from the top of his golden head, right down to his slippered toes.
"Are you certain a white cravat is appropriate?" Freddie questioned once again, to which the valet nodded his head furiously.
"I consultedThe Mirror of Gracesand several other works on manners and etiquette, my lord," Farley said, as he stepped forward to brush an imaginary speck of lint from Freddie's shoulder, "As well as confirming that I was right with two valets--both from the most esteemed households--whom I met in Weston's when I was collecting your waistcoat. Full mourning is not necessary, as Lady Hardthistle was not a blood relative; you are, however, expected to dress somewhat sombrely."
"Then this is perfect," Freddie commented, as he glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He wore a black tailcoat of fine merino-wool, over his newly acquired charcoal-grey waistcoat and dark trousers. Usually, he employed far more flair and colour when he dressed, but he was not too put-out by the austerity of his outfit--in fact, he believed he looked more dashing than usual.
"Do you know, Farley?" Freddie mused, as he adjusted his coat one last time, "I do believe black is my colour."
"It is, my lord," Farley beamed, "Though we could say that about almost any colour."
"Now that's not true," Freddie replied, modestly, Miss Mifford's assertion that he was big-headed forefront in his mind, "You know that beige does not become me."
With one last glance in the mirror to make certain that everything was in order, Freddie took his leave, instructing Farley to have his room ready for his return at midnight. He would not stay long at Lady Stanton's, for he was due to travel early the next morning to Faversham, for Lady Hardthistle's funeral.
The journey to Grosvenor Square was uneventful but slow, and Freddie tapped his foot impatiently against the carriage floor as it trundled slowly through the evening traffic. Finally, after a half-hour--twice the time it would have taken him to walk--he arrived at Stanton House.
"Lord Chambers, what a surprise!"
The wide eyes and slight flare of nostrils that accompanied Lady Stanton's greeting confirmed that his presence was, indeed, a surprise. The countess gave a quick, nervous glance over her shoulder to the ballroom, where Freddie presumed Miss Mifford already was. Evidently, she was worried he would be insulted by the young lady's presence.
"I was not going to attend, given the sad events of yesterday evening," Freddie answered, smoothly, "But it has come to my attention that some members of thetonare labouring under the assumption that poor Miss Mifford had some part to play in Lady Hardthistle's death, and I want everyone to know that I stand behind her."
"You do?" Lady Stanton's mouth was a perfect "o" of surprise.
"I do," Freddie confirmed, and the countess visibly shivered with delight at being given express permission to share such a juicy morsel of gossip.
"Do enjoy yourself, Lord Chambers," Lady Stanton answered, with a distracted air. Her eyes were already glancing over Freddie's shoulder to the next arriving guest, with whom no doubt she wanted to share her news.
Freddie gave a short bow and made his way from the entrance hall to the ballroom beyond. Dozens of heads turned to peer at him, as he strode into the room, and he spotted several ladies whispering to each other, before pointedly glancing to the opposite side of the room.
Freddie followed the direction of their gaze and his eyes fell upon Miss Mifford, who looked resplendent in a gown of frothy white. She stood beside her sister and the duke, as well as Lord Crabb and his wife. Freddie smirked, glad for once for the gossiping tabbies, who had helped him find Miss Mifford with ease.
Squaring his shoulders, Freddie crossed the crowded ballroom in long, confident strides, until he arrived before the group. The crowd had fallen silent, perhaps expecting some sort of confrontation, and there were a few audible sighs of disappointment as Freddie dropped into a low bow before Miss Mifford.
"How charmed I am to see you again, Miss Mifford," Freddie drawled, before offering his greetings to the others. They all made polite conversation for a short while, about the orchestra, the refreshments, and the balminess of the evening, before enough time had passed to allow Freddie politely steal Miss Mifford away.
"Would you care for a dance, Miss Mifford?" Freddie queried.
The duchess did not have to prod her sister to reply this time, for Freddie had barely finished speaking before Miss Mifford blurted a quick "yes" in response.
His ego somewhat pleased by her eagerness, Freddie offered the petite miss his arm, before escorting her towards the dancefloor.
"I would like to thank you for offering me your support," she began, but Freddie cut her off with a wave of his gloved hand.
"I do not require your thanks," he answered, with a shrug, "I know that you are not guilty of murdering Lady Hardthistle. The only thing I know you to be guilty of, Miss Mifford, is failing to fall in love with me--and that is not a crime, merely a sign of questionable taste."
Beside him, Miss Mifford visibly bristled, and Freddie found himself delighted by the flush of irritation which stained her cheeks. She muttered something under her breath, which Freddie did not quite catch, before taking a deep breath and turning her blue eyes his way.
"My lord," she began, her voice a hurried rush, "I have reason to believe that I know who might have killed the baroness--Sir Cadogan. I heard him arguing with Lady Hardthistle on the night of Lady Collins' musicale; he believed that she had deliberately sold him a barren mare. He was most agitated, and he threatened to wring her neck. It is possible, is it not, that Sir Cadogan is the culprit? He was also present at the ball, and I do not recall having seen him in the gardens for the firework display."
